


Where You Are

by lemonoclefox



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky's ex is an OC btw, Carpenter Steve Rogers, Fall Vibes, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Small Towns, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and I lowkey love the idea of Bucky and Sharon being bros, cozy af, not actually a 'falling inn love' au but I shamelessly stole the ridiculous premise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-21 01:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 45,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21066878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonoclefox/pseuds/lemonoclefox
Summary: Bucky Barnes gets rid of both his boyfriend and his well-paid lawyer job in the span of a week -- and also wins an inn in a raffle he entered while drunk. He decides to simply roll with the bizarre situation, and leaves New York to visit the small town of Pine Rock, Massachusetts, figuring that maybe he can fix-and-flip the old house and get some space from the shitshow that his life has become.It's not his fault if he ends up charmed by both the town and the house. And it's definitely not his fault if he falls head over heels for the lovely, plaid-wearing carpenter who's helping him out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have not seen 'Falling Inn Love' on netflix, but I saw the trailer and was filled with the thought of "make it gay and make it autumn", and this fic happened. I have no regrets.
> 
> If you end up liking this self-indulgent, soft mess of mine, I also have an ongoing multi-chap fic [over here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839784/chapters/42095321) for you to check out if you feel like it. Not as soft-soft as this one, but still pretty fucking soft.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Wait," Sharon says, holding her hand up, shaking her head with her eyes closed. "Go back. You won what?"

"An inn," Bucky replies steadily.

"An inn."

"Right. Guest house, B&B, whatever."

"Okay." Sharon watches him almost suspiciously across the table. "And _how _did you win an inn?"

"A raffle."

"A raffle."

"Could you stop repeating everything I say?"

"I'm just processing," Sharon says, leaning back in her seat.

The volume is pleasantly low around them, just enough to be a decent lunchtime murmur at a restaurant, and just enough for two people to hold a conversation without difficulty. On the table are half-finished plates, and Bucky pokes at his food, swirling a piece of meat around in sauce with his fork.

"I processed, this morning," he says, putting the meat in his mouth. Medium-cooked and delicious.

Sharon watches him for a few more moments, tapping the table with her fingers. She sighs.

"Is this the raffle you entered, last weekend?"

"Yes," Bucky replies. He seems to be overdoing it on the composed eloquence, as though trying to balance out the absurdity of the situation. "The one you made me enter."

Sharon raises her eyebrows. She did encourage this particular, impulsive decision Bucky made when they got drunk recently. Though, Bucky had honestly forgotten all about it, until he got an email this morning, explaining with great enthusiasm how he'd won a raffle, which he'd paid forty-five dollars over the five-dollar minimum to enter.

"Oh, this is on me now?" Sharon says.

"Kind of," Bucky says.

"Alright," Sharon says. "Fine. So you got an inn. What does that mean, exactly?"

Bucky heaves a sigh, relieved that the most jarring part is now apparently over with.

"It means I own an inn," he says, with a shrug. "In Massachusetts."

"What?" Sharon says, clearly not having expected that.

"Pine Rock, Massachusetts," Bucky clarifies.

"Never heard of it."

"Me neither. I googled it, and it's pretty much in the middle of nowhere. Population: two-thousand, one-hundred and eighty-four."

Sharon blinks.

"Well, what are you gonna do with it?" she asks. Bucky looks down at his plate, takes a breath.

"Actually," he says. "I was thinking about going there."

"Like," Sharon starts, "to visit?"

"To, um―" Bucky cocks his head. "To check out the place. Run it. Maybe. See what it's like."

"Wait," Sharon says, with a small sigh. She clearly wasn't expecting this much to be dumped on her, over lunch. "Let me get this straight. You drunkenly spent fifty bucks on a raffle, won an actual inn, in Pine Creek, Massachusetts―"

"Pine Rock," Bucky corrects her.

"Whatever," Sharon continues. "And you're telling me that you're actually considering just... moving there? Just like that?"

"Well, I mean, I wouldn't _move_-move there," Bucky says. "Just... Check it out. See if it's worth anything, maybe sell it. I don't know."

"So, more like a fix-it flip-it kind of thing?"

Bucky shrugs.

"I guess." Sharon doesn't respond, just watches him with slightly pursed lips. "Hey, you're the one who says I need to be more spontaneous."

"Yeah, but you can't just up and leave," Sharon exclaims. "I mean, what about work? What about your place?"

"What work?" Bucky says dryly. "You mean the job I quit last week? And my place? The one I just kicked Tom out of?"

Sharon falters a little then, clearly having momentarily forgotten about those particular factors. She sighs.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I know things are pretty shitty right now. But what are you gonna do, Bucky? Just run off to the middle of nowhere? Leave New York, leave everything? What does Pine Rock, Massachusetts have that this place doesn't?"

Bucky doesn't quite have an answer for that.

"I don't know," he settles on. "But to be honest, right now I can't think of anything that this place has that Pine Rock doesn't." He shakes his head, can't believe he's finally saying these words out loud, a realization he's been mulling over for days. "There's nothing keeping me here, anymore. I was gonna pull out of the whole thing, say no thanks, and then I realized that... Why not? What would I be staying here for, if I said no? I'd just look for another soul-sucking job like the one I just left? Hook up with some other asshole? Take them back to the place I shared with the first one?" Sharon doesn't reply, just watches him across the table. "This could be... I don't know. Maybe not better. But different. Something new. Something to just get me out of my head for a while. Just until I figure something out. Something more permanent, that I'd, you know, actually want to do."

Sharon considers that. Then she exhales.

"Seems pretty shady," she says carefully.

"I'm still a lawyer, Sharon," Bucky says tiredly. "Trust me, I've double- and triple-checked everything already."

Sharon breathes a laugh. "Of course, you have." She heaves a sigh, leaning forward and folding her arms against the table. "Alright, let's see this place."

Bucky straightens a little in his seat, brings out his phone. He doesn't bother hiding his pleased surprise at his friend taking a genuine interest in his, frankly, ridiculous plan.

"Fair warning," he says, bringing up the email and, in turn, the attached photos of the inn he now apparently owns. "It's a little... rustic."

Sharon frowns, and takes Bucky's phone when he hands it to her. Then her eyebrows rise, instead.

"Rustic," she repeats. "Bucky, this is a dump."

"It's not a dump, it just needs a little attention."

"There's an entire window missing."

"Just the one, though."

"That you know of," Sharon points out, swiping through the rest of the photos. There are only four, in total, and none of them are of the house's interior. Sharon tilts her head, seems to try to keep an open mind. "Well. I mean, the architecture is nice. I like the style. Very New England."

It's a Victorian style house, according to the description, last remodeled in the late eighties. Not too big or grand, just two stories, and half a third floor, part of which consists of what Bucky would call half of an octagonal turret. There's a big porch and bay windows on the first floor, as well as a small balcony on the second, plus a large chimney on the roof. According to the information, the house is right on the edge of Pine Rock, near a lake and backed by woods. Bucky will believe the accuracy of that when he sees it, since none of these stated details are actually in the photos.

And what _is _in the photos... Well, Sharon isn't too far off with her admittedly harsh verdict.

"Well?" Bucky asks, after almost a full minute of silence. Sharon looks up.

"Well, what?" she asks, and Bucky gives her a tired look. Sharon sighs, returns his phone. "I'm torn."

"Okay?" Bucky says, taking a last glance at the photos before locking the screen and putting his phone back in his pocket. "About what?"

"Well," Sharon starts, settling into her more pragmatic tone of voice. "On the one hand, it's a bit of an undertaking. Time-wise, financially, and so on. But I'm sure you've already thought about all of that." Bucky inclines his head; he's not one for leaving too much to chance, especially not with something this big. "Though, it's still iffy, because there's no guarantee that it'll pay off, or that it'll even break even. It could be a huge loss, if it fails."

Bucky watches her patiently. He has thought about all of this, over and over, in the several hours since he opened the email. Which, granted, is about three days less than he'd normally spend considering something this big, but this time feels different, somehow.

"And on the other hand?" he prompts, and Sharon's expression shifts a little then. Turns a little playful, almost, a smile tugging at her mouth.

"On the other hand," she says, "I'm a romantic, at heart. I admire the confidence it takes to just go for something, headfirst. To just follow your gut. Or your heart, or whatever. If I ignore my rational side, I'd be all over this idea."

Bucky smiles.

"See, that's the Sharon I wanted advice from," he says, and Sharon gives him a fondly exasperated look. She lets out a laugh.

"Fair," she says. "And I suppose that it is on me that you're in this position."

Bucky presses his lips together, raises his eyebrows with a shrug as if to say that it just can't be helped. Sharon groans, tilts her head back.

"Look," Bucky says, "do you think this is a good idea, or not? Because honestly, your opinion matters to me."

Sharon looks back at him, her expression even. She knows that he means it. The two of them haven't known each other more than a year, but Sharon was probably the first actual friend Bucky made at his firm. Even though he'd already been there for two years, by then. They hit it off when Sharon started there, both of them enjoying easy banter, speaking their minds, and both of them damn good at their jobs, knowing when to be serious and when to let loose. Not to mention, Bucky has found that Sharon Carter can be fiercely loyal, once you get her on your side.

It's an uncomplicated kind of friendship. Bucky likes that, and honestly, Sharon would probably be the only thing he'd really miss if he moved away. Even if it would be just temporary.

"Short answer," Sharon eventually says, choosing her words carefully. "Yes. Considering all the factors and working out all the kinks, sure, that comes first. But yes, I think it's a good idea."

Bucky feels an overwhelming sense of relief. It's not that he needs her permission or approval, and Sharon knows it. It's just easier to stand by a somewhat radical choice when you've got someone in your corner.

"Thank you," Bucky says, sincerely. Sharon just nods. Then she lights up with something like excitement, and she leans over the table, a smile on her face.

"So," she says. "What's the plan?"

* * *

Bucky isn't sure what he expected, traveling out to Pine Rock, Massachusetts. He's not sure what he expected to find, what the inn would look like in person, how the surroundings would be. He's not sure if he's surprised or disappointed, now that he's here.

He rented a car in Boston, when he flew in, figuring that he might as well. After driving here, he had to make his way along the main street of Pine Rock to get to the house, right on the edge. Like the info said. The town seemed fine enough. Definitely small, but with shops along the street, and more people walking around than Bucky thought there would be. It's early August, though, so he supposes that makes some sense. Either way, it's nice to know that the town where he's essentially thinking about starting a business isn't completely dead.

The house, though. The inn. It's not a complete mess. Perhaps a little worse for wear than in the photos, but Bucky guesses that's because the photos aren't exactly brand new. There are no spray-painted walls in the photos, for one, and Sharon was right―there is more than one window missing, in real life. Still. Bucky refuses to be deterred.

He has parked his rental in the rather large, graveled area out front, and leaves his bags in there, locking the doors. He's booked a room at the hotel in town, for a long stay, as he figured he wouldn't exactly be able to sleep in this house. At least, not at first. But coming here immediately upon arrival was something he couldn't resist, and it's only late afternoon. Plenty of time to check it out before heading to the hotel.

Bucky makes his way up along the steps to the large porch, the wood creaking slightly, so worn from weather and wear that he can barely make out what the color used to be. Green, maybe? Definitely something leaning toward green, just like the rest of the house. The railing has beautiful spindles, although some have been chipped, and others broken clean in half. Bucky suspects that this has been done intentionally. Probably by the same people who spray-painted the walls and broke a few windows.

Bucky half-expects his key not to fit in the door, but it does, and after some jiggling and tugging, the lock loosens. The door emits an appropriately ominous creak as it's slowly swung open, and Bucky just gazes into the foyer for a second. It's late afternoon, so there's plenty of natural light streaming in through the windows, but he's still a little taken aback by how run-down the inside really is.

_Shit._

He crosses the threshold, notices an actual doormat placed on the floor. It's worn down to little more than a sheet of fabric, and dirtied and crooked beyond belief, but still. Bucky leaves the door open behind him, as he makes his way further inside.

Immediately to his left is what he assumes used to be the drawing room. Living room, now? Whatever. There's no wall or door, instead the room is just symbolically divided from the foyer by a heavy beam in the ceiling, thicker and more aesthetically emphasized than the rest. To his right is a restroom, as well as a U-shaped staircase leading up to the second floor. Beside the staircase is a hallway, and Bucky finds a kitchen at the end of it, on the right. To the left is a dining room, which connects back to the kitchen through a swinging door, as well as to the drawing room through a large, open doorway.

There's no furniture. Well, there is, but Bucky's not sure that a ripped-up sofa and some scattered, stained little tables count. The fireplace in the corner of the drawing room is impressive―it sits pretty much in the center of the house, Bucky estimates―and ashes have been spread around by squatters who probably shouldn't have lit a fire, considering that the chimney must need some maintenance. Bucky just sighs at the mess, and heads upstairs.

Upstairs isn't much different. There are five rooms, in total, three smaller ones and two rooms big enough to be doubles. A large bathroom sits at the end of the hallway, fully equipped, but awful in design and color. All in all, this floor is clearly designed to house the inn's guests.

Another turn of the creaky staircase continues upward, and Bucky climbs it, reaching a slightly more unharmed third floor.

This area hasn't been explored as much, it seems. It's a little cleaner, aside from the effects of simply being neglected for years. It feels almost like a little apartment of its own. A large, nice bedroom, most of it occupying the octagonal half-turret of the house, with four nicely spaced windows across from two plain, ninety-degree walls. A bathroom across from the bedroom and to the right of the stairs, smaller than the one on the second floor, but fully equipped as well. There's a bathtub, even, though just the thought of using it gives Bucky a UTI; to say that it's dirty would be a massive understatement.

Still. It's not too bad. There's even a surprisingly large supply closet squeezed in beside the bathroom, which looks like it hasn't been opened at all in god knows how long. As though for ultimate effect, the naked light bulb in the ceiling sparks right out when Bucky flips the switch. Well, at least the electricity works. Kind of. At the end of the room is a small window, mirroring the one in the bathroom, as though one bigger room has been split down the middle with a wall. The view shows the forest behind the house.

When Bucky has exited the house, locked the front door, and gotten back into his car, he just takes a second. Hands gripping the wheel, he watches the house through the windshield, unsure of how to feel. Excited? Disappointed? Mostly he supposes that he just feels... He doesn't even know. He was excited, once he really made the decision to come here. Once he'd gathered up the courage to tell everyone where he was going, and why. Even when he was met with mocking from some of them, he was excited. Because this felt like the right thing to do. An adventure, or something. Maybe.

Now, Bucky just leans his forehead against the steering wheel, eyes closed. He feels like such a dumbass. He's in way over his head. He should just leave, go back home, face the humiliation and take it like a grown-up.

Sleep first, though.

The hotel isn't hard to find; it's the only one in town. Big enough to house a hundred guests or so, the building looks a little newer than the rest, but still clearly a part of the town's history. Maybe not century-old history, like Bucky's new property, but still.

Dragging his luggage into the lobby―one large suitcase on wheels, and a duffel bag―Bucky eyes the place. It's nice. Humble, but nice. Clean, modern.

"Hi, there," the man at the reception says, and Bucky offers a smile. "Welcome to the Pine of Pine Rock."

"Hi," Bucky says, putting his luggage down, not commenting on the hotel name. He already groaned at it, upon booking his room. "I've got a booking? Barnes."

The man checks his computer.

"James Barnes?" he asks, and Bucky nods. "Two weeks?"

Bucky hesitates. On the five-minute drive here from the house, he went through a whole rollercoaster of emotions; leave and give up, stay and give it a shot, sell the house, invest in renovation, move into the mountains and live like a hermit and never set foot in civilization again.

Now that he's here at the hotel, he suddenly feels like he shouldn't leave, just yet. At least, sleep on it.

"Right," Bucky confirms, nodding.

"There we go," the man says, clicking something on the screen. "A double room, with breakfast. How will you be paying?"

Bucky gets out his credit card, and once everything is in order, the man hands it back with a smile. He has a friendly demeanor. Phil, his brass nametag says.

"There you go," he says, then grabs a keycard, handing it to Bucky. "You're in 305, third floor. There's an elevator over there―" He gestures at said elevator, next to the stairs― "And breakfast is from seven to ten a.m.."

"Thanks," Bucky says with a tired smile. Suddenly, all he can think about is going to bed.

"No problem," Phil says. "You on vacation?"

"Uh," Bucky says, somehow unprepared for that question. "No, not really. Actually, speaking of―" He stops himself, but then powers through. What the hell, he thinks. He's here, he might as well give this whole inn idea an honest shot. What else is he supposed to do? "Do you know where I could find a... carpenter, or something? I need to do some remodeling, and I could use a hand."

Phil frowns.

"What kind of remodeling?" he asks.

"Uh, the house just outside of town," Bucky says, gesturing in the general direction of the inn. "I just took it over."

Phil's expression lights up at that.

"The old Pierce place?" he asks. Bucky nods. "That's great news. It's been empty for years. Pretty sure no one's lived there for at least a couple of decades."

Bucky huffs a wry laugh.

"Sounds about right," he says.

"So, you bought it?"

"Well," Bucky says, tilting his head back and forth. "Kind of. I mean, I won it. Technically. Guy who owned it died, and left it to charity. They had a raffle, and I entered, and― Yeah, it's mine now."

"That's quite the story," Phil says, with a smile. "It used to be an inn, you know, way back in the day."

"I know," Bucky says. He feels a little awkward, all of a sudden, realizes how dumb all this must sound. He hasn't actually said it out loud in a while, has never said it to someone actually from this town. Maybe they'll just see him as some city guy coming here to ruin their lives with his gentrification plans. Still, he risks telling Phil the truth. "I was actually thinking of opening it up again. The inn, I mean. Hence the remodeling."

Phil blinks. He seems genuinely surprised.

"You gonna steal my guests, Mr. Barnes?" he says, and he lets Bucky fumble for a second, before sparing him, breaking into a smile. There's something almost mischievous about it. "Kidding. There's enough to go around, especially come fall."

Bucky smiles, a little awkwardly.

"Well," he says, "I won't know if I don't fix it up, and I can't do that without help. So...?"

Phil nods.

"Carpenter, got it." He frowns, thinks about that for a moment. "We have a lot of do-it-yourself types here, but in terms of actual professionals... I think I know a guy."

"Can he help?" Bucky asks, hopeful. "It's not too advanced, I think. Just a lot. Some rotten wood, new paintjob. I'd do it myself, but it would take forever. And I'll admit I'm not _that _handy."

Phil chuckles.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I'll let him know, send him over there tomorrow."

"I don't need to make an appointment, or anything?" Bucky asks, and Phil just waves him off.

"Nah, you're good," he says. "I'll talk to him. He'll be there. He has decent rates, too."

Bucky nods slowly, decides to take his word for it. It's a small town, maybe _that _kind of town, where everyone just knows everyone and everything is done through favors and word of mouth.

"Okay," he says, tapping the counter with his keycard. "Thanks."

"No problem." Phil smiles, somewhere halfway between genuine and professional. "You have a good night."

"You, too," Bucky says, heading for the elevator, bringing his luggage with him.

His room is decent, not too small, with a nice double bed. Apparently, the tourist season is in kind of an in-between place, right now; too late for summer, too early for fall. A nice sweet spot, great for room bookings.

Phil's right, too. Come September or so, there will be an influx of visitors, just for the fall foliage, alone. Bucky will admit this place has a nice kind of atmosphere, so he kind of sees the appeal. And his new house does have a pretty great location, surrounded by trees, and a lake just down the road. He wonders if the lake has fish. He'll need to look that up.

He makes quick business of unpacking and getting things in order. Sharon likes to tease him for being the kind of person who actually uses the closets and dressers in a hotel room, but if he's staying here for a while, he's not about to live out of his suitcase.

Not really in the mood to socialize, Bucky just heads downstairs to buy a couple of sandwiches from the restaurant area, before retreating back to his room. He has no plans to leave for the rest of the night, and ends up just lying on the bed, channel surfing for a bit, before landing on an Indiana Jones movie. He can't tell which one. He's never been a huge fan, and they're already smack in the middle of it, anyway.

Satisfied with the background noise, Bucky gets out his phone, sending off a text to Sharon, biting into his first sandwich.

_I'm here and I'm alive_, he writes. Within moments, there's a reply.

_Tell me everything._

_Not much to tell. It's a dump._

_How bad?_

_Fixable. _Bucky pauses. _I'm gonna check it out again tomorrow, a guy's coming over to help._

_A qualified guy?_

_Apparently._

Dots appear in Sharon's bubble, before disappearing, then showing up again. It goes on for about twenty seconds, before she decides to hit send.

_I'm proud of you, _she writes. Bucky frowns.

_Why? _he asks.

_For doing this, _Sharon replies. _It's scary, and you're doing it anyway. Most of us wish we had half the balls to do something like that._

_No one's stopping you, _Bucky writes, with a snort. Sharon Carter is one of the ballsiest people he's ever known.

_I happen to like my job, _she replies. _I don't feel like skipping off into the woods just yet. You do you, though._

Their conversation teeters off a bit, and Bucky takes a minute to check his social media apps. He's not much for any of them, he's mostly ever used LinkedIn and Facebook, for purely practical reasons. But every now and then, he'll scroll through his rarely-if-ever used Instagram account. He hasn't used it in a couple of weeks, and most of the accounts he follows are either about food, nature, or the occasional celebrity he likes.

And Tom. He'd forgotten about that. Impossible to do so now, though, since a photo shows up right in his face, posted by his douchebag of an ex-boyfriend. Seeing it shoots a cold, uncomfortable jolt into his stomach, and Bucky swallows hard. It's a photo of Tom, at some beach party, shouting at the camera with a huge grin, a small group of people around him. They're all part of the photo, too, but Bucky only vaguely recognizes some of them―he never really got along with Tom's friends.

He definitely recognizes one of them, though. He suspects he'll have a hard time forgetting the face of the guy he caught his partner cheating on him with.

Bucky rubs his eyes with one hand, putting the phone down. Suddenly, the softly excited feeling he had just a minute ago has gone up in smoke, leaving nothing but chilly, lead-heavy dread and embarrassment behind. He feels so stupid. He covers his face with his hands, sits up in the bed, crossing his legs. _Shit._

He decides to take preemptive measures to stop himself from spiraling.

_Remind me to never use ig again, _he writes to Sharon, who replies immediately.

_Shit. You saw it, didn't you?_

Of course.

_I did._

_He's such an asshole for posting that._

_Yeah._

_Want me to fight him? Because I will. _Bucky scoffs a laugh, feeling slightly better. _You know what my high-kicks are like._

_Yes, they're very impressive, _Bucky types. Sharon takes all kinds of fighting-type workout classes, and he still remembers that time she chose to demonstrate her skills, while drunk. She ended up kicking him in the face, and still vehemently insists that it was by accident. Bucky used his black eye to guilt-trip her for weeks, after.

_Seriously, _Sharon writes. _He's a fucking asshole._

_I know. _Bucky does know, but he still feels better having it confirmed by someone else, someone he knows is on his side. _Thanks._

_Anytime. _There's a long pause. _Wanna facetime or something?_

Bucky smiles, appreciates the gesture. They very rarely facetime, never really have a reason to, since they see each other in real life, all the time. But he's just not up for it, at the moment.

_Thanks, but I think I'm just gonna go to bed, _he writes. _Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow._

Sharon replies with a string of emojis, obnoxious ones, as they both tend to do. It's more ironic, than anything, but it's still nice. _Sweet dreams, _Sharon adds. Bucky returns the sentiment, before putting his phone aside for good, this time. He only makes sure to check his alarm, and then finishes off the second sandwich, before getting ready for bed. He catches his reflection in the mirror, momentarily stunned by how he looks. Like he hasn't slept, strung out, like everything has just recently fallen apart around him. Which is kind of has. But still.

At least Indiana Jones is good for something, Bucky thinks, as he gets underneath the covers of his surprisingly comfy bed. It's excellent for drifting off to sleep.

* * *

The next day is all about cleaning. At least, that's the plan. Bucky figures that he should get started as soon as possible, and it's not like there's anything else for him to do in this town. So he stops by the well-stocked supermarket and hardware store, to get supplies as well as something of a packed lunch, before heading out to the house.

It looks exactly the same as it did yesterday. Of course, it does. The same exterior, the same sad paintjob, the same unkempt front yard and weedy gravel. But there's something different about it, too. Bucky sees it as he gets out of his car and looks up at the building, with all its Victorian details, ornate trim and angles. It's _his. _His to do whatever he wants with, his to fix up or tear down, and no one could stop him, either way.

It makes Bucky smile a little bit. There's suddenly a certain feeling of freedom in his chest, that he didn't quite expect.

He has always been a goal-oriented person; structure is good, compartmentalizing is good, knowing where you're headed is good. It's how he did so well as a kid, how he got into law school, how he so easily made friends, wherever he went. Up until he joined his old firm, that is. Suddenly, everything became less about cooperation and more about competition. Everyone was an enemy, a rival, someone to sabotage and fight in order to get ahead. That never suited Bucky quite as well. It always left a bad taste in his mouth, which is why meeting Sharon was so refreshing―and which is why he so quickly dropped that job once he realized those tactics hadn't actually gotten him anywhere, anyway.

But this house, it's a different kind of goal. It's just for him.

In his mind, Bucky starts going over what needs to be done and when, what to prioritize. It's a pretty long list, but cleaning is something he can do himself, at least. So he puts a pair of headphones in, and gets to work in the drawing room.

After an hour or so, the floor looks relatively clean. Bucky has managed to drag the ratty two-seat sofa out onto the porch, tossed out the small tables, and swept up all the dust, dirt, and debris off the floor. The ashes from the fireplace have been cleaned out, the cobwebs along the ceiling corners and beams are gone (Bucky certainly did _not_ have a minor breakdown over the massive spider that dropped onto his head), and the broken glass from the large, wide bay window has been thrown out. The floor is actually rather nice, Bucky notes, now that all the crap is gone. Hardwood, and not as worn as he thought it would be.

"Hello?"

The sound of a voice calling from outside startles Bucky just enough to slam his head up into the fireplace, which he is currently leaning into to clean out. He curses under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut and gingerly touching his head where it bumped into solid brick. He pulls his headphones out of his ears, just barely heard the voice with them in.

"Hello?" the voice calls again, and Bucky takes a deep breath, before leaning back and landing on his ass on the floor, instead.

"Yeah," he says, raising his voice slightly, and looks over toward the entrance. There's a man in the foyer, and he turns to Bucky, a little startled. Then he eyes Bucky up and down quickly, before taking a few steps into the drawing room. He sees Bucky's disgruntled expression, his position, and proximity to the fireplace. He makes the connection.

"Having a good time?" he says, and it takes Bucky a second to notice the thin layer of sarcasm in his words. He frowns.

"A great time," he says with as much dryness as he can muster. "Can I help you?"

"Oh," the guy says, stepping closer and holding out his hand. "Steve. Phil said you needed some help?"

Bucky straightens a little where he sits, and takes Steve's offered hand. It's warm and rough, calloused from hard work and manual labor, the grip firm and confident. Not too tight, just enough to comfortable. He pulls Bucky up from the floor, with much more ease than Bucky is prepared for.

"Right, yeah," Bucky says, once he's back on his feet. He brushes off his clothes. A completely pointless endeavor, since he's covered in dust and soot and sweat, by now. "Bucky."

"Good to meet you, Bucky," Steve says with a friendly smile. He doesn't so much as blink at the name. Back in New York, half the people Bucky met would have some kind of reaction to it, often condescending in some way or other. It's why he's gotten used to introducing himself as James, most of the time.

Not here, though. He's resolved to be himself here, as much as possible.

"You, too," he says. Steve smiles a little wider, puts his hands in his pockets. Smiling suits him, Bucky decides. He's got a friendly face, one you can't help but trust, with the slightest hint of stubble. He's in pretty damn good shape, too. The real kind of in shape, a result of daily, actual work and an active lifestyle, not from strategically planned hours in a gym. Not like the guys back home. The worn jeans and simple t-shirt only emphasize the practicality of it all.

"So, I hear you wanna fix this place up?" Steve says.

"Yeah," Bucky says, taking a couple of steps back and gesturing around the room. "I don't know how realistic it is, but yeah."

"And you want to use it as an inn?" Steve asks, starting to slowly make his way around the room, studying the walls and the floor and the ceiling. Bucky follows him with his eyes, twisting his headphone cord around his fingers. "With guests?"

"That's the plan," Bucky says. "But like I said, I don't know how realistic it is―"

"I think it's a good plan," Steve interrupts gently. He sounds like he means it. "How's the rest of the house?"

"Uh," Bucky says, gesturing upward to indicate the upper floors. "Kind of like down here. Nothing's _completely _ruined. Just in bad shape. I think it's been used by a few squatters, over the years."

Steve make a sympathetic sound.

"Probably," he says. "Either teenagers from town, or people passing through. It's been empty for so long that it's kind of considered public property."

"Should I be worried?" Bucky asks.

"No," Steve says easily. "It's pretty clear that's not the case anymore. Anyone from around here will leave it alone, from now on."

"Good to know." Steve turns to Bucky, eyebrows slightly raised, encouraging him to continue. "The wiring seems okay. I'm no expert, but at least everything works. Water's iffy, but that might just be 'cause no one's used the pipes in forever." Steve exhales a laugh through his nose. "Mostly, it's just about old wood and paint, I think. And just general cleaning. Obviously." He gestures vaguely around the room, the difference rather stark between the drawing room and foyer, at this point.

Steve nods slowly. He looks up at the ceiling, slowly scans the room with his eyes, now that he's stopped moving. He's almost circled Bucky completely since he started.

"Well," he says, hands on his hips. It's a pose that looks stupid with most people, but all it does is make him look resolved and confident. "I'm gonna take a closer look around the house, if that's okay?"

"Yeah, sure." Bucky gestures at him to go ahead, and Steve gives him another smile and a nod, before heading through the open doorway that leads into the dining room. "Oh, just―" Steve turns back around. "I think a raccoon lives in here somewhere? I'm pretty sure one screamed at me when I went into one of the upstairs rooms earlier, but I'm also pretty sure it escaped down the stairs and out the door when I wasn't looking. So... Yeah."

Steve chuckles.

"You're probably right," he says. "I'll keep that in mind."

While Steve makes his way around the house―Bucky can hear intermittent creaking and shuffling as Steve heads up the stairs and walks around to check all the rooms―Bucky keeps cleaning. He decides that fixing up the windows of the house should probably be the first move after this, both to keep warmth in, and to keep people, animals, and dirt out. Maybe change the locks, too. Bucky doesn't feel too comfortable knowing that his key is the same one that's fit for over twenty years.

"This is a really nice place," Steve says, once he comes back downstairs. He sounds almost excited, a small smile on his face. "I've never been inside, before."

"What, you never partied here with the other teens?" Bucky says, and Steve huffs an almost self-conscious laugh.

"Not exactly," he admits. "Can't say I was really part of that crowd."

Bucky just nods, smiling a little. Somehow, he's not surprised. The impression he gets from this guy is that he's just all-around wholesome.

Impressions can definitely be wrong, though.

"Well," Bucky says, spreading his arms out before folding them across his chest. "What's the verdict?"

"First off," Steve says, all-business, "you're right, the wiring is mostly fine. Maybe update a few things, though, make sure it's safe. I know a guy who can help with that. We should fix the windows, to start with, make sure the house is insulated properly. It's nice and warm now, but it can get really cold, come winter."

Bucky nods, preening a little at having his first instincts confirmed.

"There's some wood that needs replacing upstairs," Steve continues, glancing up at the ceiling. "And I don't know how authentic you wanna go, but the whole place could just use a general makeover, to be honest. The wallpaper in the upstairs bathroom made me wanna throw up."

Bucky snorts, a highly unattractive sound. Steve seems pleased at making him laugh, though.

"Yeah, same," Bucky says. "And I don't know, I just wanna make it livable, for starters. We'll see what comes next. And what my budget allows."

Steve inclines his head sympathetically.

"Well, if it makes you feel better," he says, "people here are pretty helpful. With this kind of thing, especially." He gestures at the whole house, with a wave of his hand. "Trust me, no one's gonna try to bleed you dry."

Bucky presses his lips together in a half-smile.

"Appreciate that," he says, a little uncomfortable, all of a sudden. He's not used to this kind of thing, to such unprompted generosity and helpfulness. Back home, everyone always wants something. Hell, _he _always wanted something. It's a nice change of pace to not feel like there's more than just one hidden catch, behind every offer. Somehow, he has a hard time imagining Steve as the deceitful type.

"So, what's the plan for the rooms?" Steve asks, gesturing toward the upper floors.

"Uh," Bucky starts, eloquently. "I was thinking I'd have two double rooms and three single. The bathroom's big enough to share, and there's a smaller bathroom, down here. Also, maybe knock that wall down in the kitchen, to the storage room? It's inconveniently small, and doesn't really serve a purpose anymore. Figured I could just put shelves or something in there instead, get some extra space.

Steve nods, doesn't seem to disagree with any of these ideas. Which is a little reassuring, if Bucky's being honest.

"And the third floor?"

Bucky hesitates for a second.

"I figured it'd be for whoever lives here," he says. "The innkeeper, I guess. Big bedroom. There's a great bathroom, and a supply closet right next to it. You could turn that into a office, maybe. A small one."

"So, _you'd _be living there?" Steve asks, and Bucky makes a face, somewhere between hesitation and awkward ambivalence.

"Probably not," he admits. "I mostly just planned on fixing this place up, get it up and running. See if someone else wants it, by then. If not... I guess we'll see."

Steve frowns a little, confused.

"So, you're not staying?" he asks. Bucky shrugs, suddenly somehow self-conscious under Steve's gaze.

"As of now," he says, "no. I'll probably be going back to New York, once this is done."

Steve nods slowly, his expression neutral.

"Well," he says after a moment. "If you do end up selling it, I don't think you'll have a problem with interest. An old, remodeled inn in small-town, Massachusetts? A goldmine, with the right marketing. People are gonna want it."

He adds a crooked smile, encouraging and well-meaning, and Bucky feels a little better.

"Good to know," he says.

"I'm surprised old Pierce let this place go," Steve says, glancing around the room. "And to charity, too. Even in death, I think we all just assumed he'd be too self-important and proud to let anyone else have it."

"Did he live around here?"

"No," Steve says with a humorless chuckle. "No, his family was old money. Through legitimate business, they insisted, but everyone's pretty sure they were involved with the mob." Bucky raises his eyebrows, and Steve just shrugs. "They had this place since it was first built, pretty much. I think maybe Pierce had plans for it, back in the eighties, but it never took off. And he never had any kids, or anything, so it's been empty and abandoned, ever since."

Bucky nods slowly. That explains why everything seems kind of new, in the house. Unused, just old.

"Well," Bucky says. "I was hoping to maybe have this done by fall? October? If that's not too optimistic?"

Steve makes a face, shrugs.

"Should be possible," he says, nodding. "Since it's mostly cosmetic stuff."

Bucky nods, relieved.

"Okay," he says. Steve just watches him for a second, and there's something hesitant but amused about his expression. "What?"

"You just―" Steve gestures at his own cheek. "You got something."

Bucky brings the back of his hand up to the side of his face, and it comes away with a substantial smudge of soot. He sighs, presses his lips together. Well, that's embarrassing.

"It's a look," he deadpans, rather than fumble and show said embarrassment. Steve laughs, a low, happy sound. He nods.

"Right." He narrows his eyes a little then, smile turning more playful. "Well, hey," he says, as he starts making his way past Bucky and to the front door, to check the exterior of the house. "Maybe by the time this place is done, you'll actually wanna stay."

He bumps Bucky's shoulder lightly, a familiar gesture that takes Bucky a little by surprise. He chuckles, thankfully not too awkwardly.

"Doubtful," he says. "But sure."

"I don't know," Steve says, in an almost sing-song voice, tossing it over his shoulder, hands in his pocket as he saunters out the door. "This town might work its magic, make you change your mind."

With that, he disappears out of sight, and Bucky just watches him go. He shakes his head, with a scoff, absently twisting the headphone cord in his hand.

Doubtful.

* * *

Once Bucky gets his hands on the floor plans, things get a little easier to sketch out. He decides on leaving the rooms as they are―well, _they _decide, since Steve is pretty involved, at this point. He can get a little pushy at times, though, but Bucky makes sure to push back, when necessary. Steve may be the expert, here, but Bucky is not about to let himself be run over when it comes to his own property and ideas.

He still can't believe he owns this place, to be honest.

Steve definitely has a stubborn streak, that much Bucky learns pretty quickly. He likes to do things his way, and seems pretty used to people just going along with it. Not because he forces them to, or gives them no choice, but simply because he takes charge and keeps a level head, by the looks of it. It makes sense to listen to him, to follow. And Bucky has a hard time imagining him taking advantage of that.

But still. Bucky makes sure to put his foot down every now and then. Like when it comes to the kitchen, insisting on keeping as much of the old as possible, focusing on fixing up what's there rather than replacing it. The exception is of course the electronics and kitchenware; fridge, freezer, oven and stove, all of it has to go. But Bucky still intends on replacing them with things that at least _look _like they fit the house, age-wise. He's not touching the old wood burning stove, which has only served an aesthetic function for the past several decades, but is an integral part of the house.

Also, thankfully, there is in fact not a raccoon living in the house. That said, the little critters have clearly gotten used to coming and going as they please, and Bucky has had to scare off more than one since he got here. Steve says that they'll give up, eventually. Hopefully.

They fall into a rhythm pretty quickly, Steve and Bucky. Steve will have an idea, Bucky will either agree or push back, and they'll have some kind of silent standoff until the other backs down. It works. They compromise. Sometimes Bucky has no choice but to give way to Steve's practical expertise.

It's after a week of planning and sketching and ordering supplies, that they finally get to work. The window panes will be coming in next week, so they start with the porch, in the meantime. Taking advantage of the mid-August weather seems like the best idea, and the plan is to repaint the exterior soon, as well.

"You got a color scheme?" Steve asks, lifting what will be replacements for the broken floorboards out of his truck. He heaves the new, fresh boards onto his shoulder, and Bucky is momentarily distracted by the cords of muscle shifting under the fabric of his t-shirt. It's rather tight-fitting, honestly. White. Practical. Bound to become a little see-through if Steve sweats enough.

"I think so," Bucky says. "Red? Like, a dark, dusty red. Not sure about the corners and trim, yet."

Steve raises his eyebrows approvingly.

"I like that," he says. "Could work with an even darker color on the details? Unless that's a little too goth for you."

He adds it jokingly, and Bucky lifts his chin a little haughtily.

"I'll have you know," he says, "that I was a semi-goth myself, back in the day."

"Oh, were you, now?" Steve says, amused, putting the boards down.

"Long hair, and everything," Bucky says. He combs his fingers back through his hair. It's just long enough to fall over his forehead when it misbehaves, easy to style into something more reasonable. He'll admit that he kind of misses the shoulder-length sometimes, even if he did get rid of it almost a decade ago. He shrugs. "I pulled it off."

"I can imagine," Steve says, and Bucky swears there's a compliment in there, somewhere. "So why'd you cut it?"

"Well, I grew up," Bucky says dryly. "But mostly, it's hard to be taken seriously as a lawyer when you have a man bun."

"A lawyer?" Steve says, eyebrows raised. He clearly wasn't expecting that, and Bucky is actually a little surprised that it hasn't come up before. Not that they've spent any time together, outside of this. Bucky has mostly kept to himself, in general, splitting his time between the hotel, this house, and the occasional meal. And Steve has kept everything strictly professional, in the meantime. Which Bucky appreciates.

"Yep." Bucky clears his throat, suddenly very determined to steer away from this particular topic. He turns to survey the house, instead, eyeing the tags and crude figures spray-painted on the sides. "I think red will work."

Steve, clearly taking the hint, graciously follows Bucky's lead.

"I think so, too," he says. "Gotta make sure there's something to paint first, though."

With that, they get to work properly on the porch. They broke up the rotting floorboards yesterday, and the new boards have already been sized correctly. Steve says that the broken spindles on the railing can be replicated, and that he'll get the measurements and design to put in an order later today. Bucky appreciates that. It's nice to have someone else take the lead, when it comes to things that aren't quite his forte. And Steve has a rapport with everyone here that Bucky seriously doubts that he himself could copy; he's certain that he's regarded mostly as an outsider, here to take advantage of the town.

At least, Steve doesn't seem to see him that way. Though, Bucky is paying him. Still. It's kind of nice.

By late afternoon, they're both exhausted and sweaty, and Bucky feels pretty gross. Meanwhile, Steve just looks more and more like a rugged carpenter in his jeans and tool belt, the sweatier he gets. It doesn't matter that Bucky is wearing much the same thing; jeans and a t-shirt, though in darker shades than Steve's. He's sure he just looks like exactly what he is―a city boy who might be in over his head.

"So, uh," Steve asks, kneeling on the porch and lining up the very last board to be nailed down. "Can I ask why?"

Bucky frowns. He's actually a little out of breath as he plops down on the newly-built steps, and he hates it. He's been scrubbing as much as possible of the house clean, to prep it for painting, and his hands are dry and chapped.

"Why, what?" he says. Steve shrugs, still paying attention to his work.

"Why a hotshot lawyer decided to drop everything and move out to fuck-all, Massachusetts."

It's not the question Bucky expects. It's been a week, and Steve has never asked. He hasn't so much as hinted at it since it vaguely came up, this morning. He's aware that Steve knows the details, though, since he learned them from Phil.

"You know why," Bucky says, a little self-consciously now. For some reason. "I won a raffle."

"Right." Steve looks up now, the slightest hint of amusement on his face. There are three nails in the corner of his mouth, muffling his speech a bit, so he takes them out. "You just entered a raffle to win an inn. Of all things. And you actually came out here, when you won. Though, to be honest, entering to begin with is what I'm having the most trouble wrapping my head around."

Bucky doesn't immediately reply.

"I was drunk," he eventually murmurs, but he's not sure Steve hears it. "How's that your business, anyway?"

Steve―clearly taken by surprise by Bucky's suddenly hostile tone―actually chuckles, rather than be offended.

"It's not," he says, shaking his head. "Just pure curiosity. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

He turns back to the task at hand, putting two nails back in his mouth as he holds on to the third, lining it up where he intends to hammer it into the board.

Bucky knows he doesn't have to tell Steve anything. The thing is, he kind of wants to, now that the opportunity has presented itself. Well, he wants to tell _anyone_, really. Someone who won't judge. This stranger might be as good an option as any, and it's not like Bucky is bringing it up on his own. It won't be conceited to talk about it now, right?

He sighs, after some consideration. His back is turned to Steve, who's hammering away at a second nail, now.

"Promise not to laugh?" Bucky says begrudgingly, twisting to look at Steve. Steve sits back on his ankles, eyebrows going up in an innocent expression that actually looks genuine. He plucks the last nail out of his mouth, holding it between his fingers, instead. He tilts his head.

"I promise I'll _try _not to laugh," he says, without a hint of teasing or deceit.

"Good enough," Bucky says, turning back to look straight ahead. Out at the graveled area, edged by woods on both sides, leading out to the road just within eyeshot. His rental car looks almost a little out of place next to Steve's very practical truck. Bucky lets out another exhale, rubbing a hand down his face, over the slight stubble he hasn't bothered shaving off. "It's gonna sound stupid. Really cliché."

"Try me."

Bucky clenches his jaw, then relaxes.

"Short version," he says, deciding to just power through it. "My boyfriend cheated on me, I lost a promotion, and just didn't really see a point in staying, anymore."

"In New York?" Steve asks. Bucky nods.

"Yeah," he says, honestly surprised by Steve's lack of judgment or shock. It's refreshing.

"What about your job?" Steve says, and Bucky shrugs.

"Wasn't for me," he says, shaking his head. The words come out so easily, now that he's accepted them and said them over and over for weeks, especially to himself. "Never was, I think. It just seemed to make sense, at first, and I just... kept going on that path. For years. Getting passed over for that promotion just made me realize how much I didn't actually want to be there, I guess."

He hears Steve shift a little, behind him.

"And your boyfriend...?" Steve says, trailing off. There isn't the slightest hint of judgment there, either.

"Was a cheating asshole," Bucky finishes, with a humorless smile. "Another thing I only realized I never actually wanted, until I lost it." He shrugs. "We were never a good fit, either. Not really. We just got together, and sort of just..."

"Stayed together," Steve finishes. Bucky nods.

"Yeah," he says. "For way too long."

"How long?"

"Three years, long?" Steve lets out a soft _oof_ of sympathy. "Yeah." Bucky emits a rueful chuckle. "We lived together. Had a really nice place. Great view, great neighborhood. I would've kept it, since I got it for us in the first place, but―"

He cuts himself off.

"But?" Steve prompts. Bucky looks over his shoulder, sees Steve lower his chin a bit in an encouraging gesture.

"But coming home to your boyfriend fucking another guy on your couch doesn't exactly inspire warm, fuzzy feelings about the place." The words come out in a rush, tinged with acid and salt, and Steve's expression turns sympathetic. For some reason, it doesn't annoy Bucky like it has with everyone else.

"I'm sorry," Steve says evenly. He sounds like he means it. Beneath it, he almost sounds... _angry. _Just slightly. "That's really shitty."

Bucky huffs a dry laugh.

"Understatement." He points at Steve. "Oh, and also, that was the same day that I didn't get the promotion. It's why I went home early."

Steve lets out a pained groan.

"Shit," he says. "I'm sorry I asked. You're right, it's not my business―"

"No, no, it's fine," Bucky interrupts, shaking his head. "It's fine. I didn't have to tell you, I chose to. It's fine." He looks down at his hands, absently lacing and unlacing his fingers. "It actually feels kind of good to tell someone. Someone who isn't... connected, to the whole situation."

Steve hums. He seems to hesitate for a second, before getting up from the floor with a slight groan, and making his way over to the steps. He slowly sinks down to sit next to Bucky, at a familiar, but appropriate distance. He moves in such a controlled kind of way, Bucky notes, with a grace you don't usually see in someone so large. Not that he's that much bigger than Bucky; they're the same height, and both in good shape. Steve just seems... bigger. Contradictory to that, he carries himself like someone smaller in size. But he takes up space in a way Bucky has rarely seen in a person. In a good way. In a solid, comforting, unintentional kind of way.

"Well," Steve says, "then I'm glad I could help."

Bucky turns to him, only to be hit by one of those soft, crooked smiles that make Steve Rogers look as much the wholesome all-American guy that he apparently is. It should annoy Bucky, but it doesn't. Not as much as it should. Instead, he can't help but smile back, if with a little hesitation.

"Thanks," he says, for lack of anything else. A pause. "Honestly, people thought I was stupid for coming out here. For doing this. Him, most of all, I think. Not that I asked."

"Fuck 'em," Steve says plainly, and Bucky huffs a laugh.

"I like that approach," he says. Steve gives him a proper smile then, one that lights up his whole face, one of fond sympathy and understanding. No patronization whatsoever. He bumps Bucky's shoulder with his own._ So firm_, Bucky's brain supplies, unhelpfully.

"Come on," Steve says, getting up from the steps. Bucky frowns.

"What?" he says.

"We're going into town," Steve says, and Bucky blinks.

"But―" he sputters, suddenly faced with the reality that he might actually have to _spend time _in this place, during his stay. "We're not done."

It's a lame excuse, but Steve takes it in stride. He gets back up onto the porch, kneels down and takes that very last nail, and hammers it into place. He pats the wood gently.

"There," he says, getting back up. He adjusts his tool belt, and Bucky very deliberately keeps his eyes _off _that motion. "Now we're done. Come on, let's go."

He grabs the toolbox sitting by the wall, and walks past Bucky, down onto the gravel. When Bucky doesn't move, he turns back around.

"Come on," he says, gesturing for Bucky to get up. "Lock up. Get in the truck."

Bucky scrambles to do just that, confused by the sudden ordering around, but he doesn't mind. He's just surprised, and it's not until he's in the passenger seat of Steve's truck that his brain catches up.

"So, where are we going, exactly?" he asks, as they reach the road and the dilapidated house disappears behind them.

"Food," Steve says simply. "I could go for something a little more substantial than a sandwich."

Bucky is inclined to agree, but he says nothing, just nods and looks straight ahead. The truck is in surprisingly good shape. Though, he's not sure what he expected. He supposes he has certain preconceived notions about this kind of town and its inhabitants.

They pass by the hotel on the way, driving down the main street and taking a turn here and there. Steve clearly knows exactly where he's going, and it's only when they pull over outside a small restaurant that Bucky has a realization.

"Damn it," he says, looking down at himself. The sweat has dried, but it's definitely still there, and his ratty clothes look a hell of a lot dirtier now than they did outside in the sun. Gross. "I can't go like this."

"Sure you can," Steve says. He gestures at himself, as if to make a point.

"Oh, come on," Bucky says. "On you, it's a look. I just look like shit."

A small, amused smile tugs at Steve's mouth.

"You look fine, Buck," he says softly. And _oh _hearing him so casually whip up his own nickname, in that voice, shouldn't make Bucky feel all fuzzy inside, but it sure as fuck does.

"You're just trying to get to the food," Bucky says dryly, and Steve cocks his head.

"That, too," he says. With that, he unceremoniously gets out of the truck. Bucky rolls his eyes with a sigh, before following.

"You're buying," he says, as he and Steve head into the restaurant. The front doors are already open, given the warm weather. "It's the least you can do for forcing me into this."

Steve chuckles.

"I was going to, anyway," he says.

It's a pub-vibe kind of restaurant. It's half-crowded, and only a few of the patrons look like they're from out of town. There's a certain tourist-vibe over them, and Bucky hopes he himself is not quite as obvious. At the moment, he might not be. He doesn't exactly look the part.

Several people greet Steve, and he politely replies, as he and Bucky make their way through to a nice corner in the back. It's a table for four, right by a window, and they sit down across from each other. Within a second, two menus are plopped down in front of them, and Bucky picks his up with some apprehension. He glances around the restaurant, noting the surprisingly modern and elegant decor, with dark wood and large windows, as well as more than enough tables to accommodate at least eighty or so guests.

Bucky sheepishly turns back to his menu. He really needs to stop finding everything here "surprisingly" something positive or other. A town isn't stuck in the stone age just because it's small. They're only just over an hour away from Boston, too.

He flits his gaze over to Steve, who's eyeing the menu as though he hasn't read it hundreds of times before. Bucky is sure that he must have, given how easily and confidently he drove here.

Bucky's eyes go back down to his own menu, before going up to Steve's face, then back down again.

"So," he says after a minute. "What about you?"

Steve glances up with a frown.

"What about me?" he says.

"I've shared," Bucky clarifies casually, looking back down at the menu in his hands. He's not really paying attention to what it says. "Now it's your turn. Who is Steve Rogers?"

Steve lets out a little amused huff.

"What if I don't like sharing?" he says. Bucky hums.

"Then I might grow resentful, due to the now-unbalanced nature of this professional relationship," he says easily. "I mean, you technically work for me. It wouldn't be right."

"Ah," Steve says. Bucky looks up. Steve is smiling at the menu, but clearly trying not to, and it's actually pretty charming. "Fair enough, then."

Before he can continue, a waitress comes over to take their order. She doesn't look older than sixteen, but she clearly knows Steve, with whom she makes pleasant small-talk for a second. Bucky ends up ordering the special, while Steve orders the sea bass, and right before the girl leaves, she offers Bucky a somewhat timid smile. He smiles back politely, and once she's gone, he notices Steve eyeing him with an amused expression.

"What?" Bucky asks.

"You're a novelty," Steve explains. "And she probably thinks you're cute."

Bucky pulls back a little at the blunt explanation. It's not that he's unaware of how he looks; he used to be called a heartbreaker back in high school, and hasn't exactly had trouble garnering interest, since. And he does try to take good care of his appearance. It just feels oddly awkward, hearing it from Steve. Even if it's not reflective of Steve's own opinions.

"Yeah, well," Bucky says, for lack of anything else, "I'm pretty sure I'm about ten years out of her league."

Steve just shrugs, as the girl returns with two glasses and a pitcher of water. Her smile is a little more confident this time, and Bucky thanks her as she leaves. When she does, Steve chuckles, and Bucky throws him a tired look.

"Shut up," he says calmly. Steve raises his hands in a disarming gesture.

"I haven't said anything," he says innocently.

"Shut up," Bucky repeats, but can't help but smile, this time. Steve returns it, before pressing his lips together and folding that smile in. He turns his attention to the water, instead, pouring himself a glass, and one for Bucky.

"So," Bucky says, and merely waves his hand when Steve looks up at him.

"What?" Steve says innocently.

"You're not getting off that easy," Bucky says. "Talk."

Steve heaves a sigh, leans back in his seat.

"There really isn't much to tell," he says. "I was born and raised here. Moved away for a bit after high school, then came back a few years later. Lived here, ever since."

"Where'd you go?" Bucky asks, taking a sip of water. He finds himself actually curious.

"Boston, at first," Steve says. "Went to college. Then I moved to New York, actually, tried to make a name for myself. Just for a year or so, though. And that was it."

"What'd you study?"

"Is this a job interview?" Steve asks with a smile, eyebrows raised, and Bucky huffs a laugh. He doesn't need to answer, and Steve keeps going, albeit with the slightest hesitation. "Art. I studied art. It's what I wanted to do. Turns out, though, being an artist isn't exactly an easy, nor particularly profitable career."

"No, really?" Bucky asks with faux surprise.

"Alright, Mr. Law School," Steve says, folding his arms and looking out the window by the table. He's smiling, but Bucky gets the impression that he might actually be a little self-conscious. Bucky chews his lip, thinking.

"That's pretty brave, though," he blurts. Steve looks back at him with an unreadable, maybe surprised expression. "I mean―" He takes a breath, realizes he's getting maybe a little too personal. But fuck it. "I knew what I was gonna do since high school. I had it all planned. Got good grades, stayed out of trouble. Mostly. Got a degree, got a job, joined a pretty reputable firm." He shrugs, his gaze landing somewhere on the table. "I was never happy, though. Not really. I just kept telling myself it was a good job, it was worth it, it would pay off eventually. Then I realized just weeks ago that I didn't want it at all. Not really."

He looks up at Steve, who's watching him with a still, friendly expression. Not patronizing. Bucky vaguely wonders if Steve is even capable of being patronizing. He seems to always be walking on the right side of that line, somehow.

"So, yeah," Bucky says, straightening in his seat, arms folded against the table. "I think it's brave. Doing something you want, even though you know it's realistically probably a bad idea."

_Like deciding to drop everything and remodel an old inn in the middle of nowhere and try to make something of it, _he thinks to himself. Maybe he should consider himself brave, too.

Steve doesn't answer, right away. Instead, he just watches Bucky with an unreadable kind of expression. Then he smiles a little.

"I appreciate that," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "Thank you."

Bucky just nods, lips pressed together. Suddenly desperate to take the attention off of himself, he pushes on.

"So, what happened?" he asks. "Why'd you move back? Or, I guess, why'd you stay?"

Steve lets out a little groan, tapping the table with his fingers, looking out the window.

"Not sure," he says. "I meant to just come back for a bit, get back on my feet. Then I got comfortable."

Bucky frowns.

"You say that as though you didn't _want _to stay," he says, and Steve turns back to him, eyebrows raised.

"No, I did," he hurries to say. "I did. I do. It just wasn't what I planned." He lets out a rueful chuckle. "I was supposed to be an artist. Do big things. Then I failed and just came back here. I like it now, I really do. It's quiet, safe. And not too far from the city, if I wanna go."

"Do you still..." Bucky starts, narrowing his eyes. "Art? I just realized I don't know your medium," he adds, while Steve just laughs. Laughing does suit him. It makes his whole face light up, any guarded, careful control gone.

"I do," Steve says, still chuckling, and it's so nice that Bucky can't even be bothered to feel embarrassed. "Art, I mean. Just not as much. And as for medium, I prefer drawing. Mostly pencil, sometimes charcoal. I do also always keep paint at home, though, should the mood strike."

Bucky hums, nodding. He hears their server approaching, and leans back in his seat.

"Well," he says, as the food reaches their table, "it's not as artsy, but at least you've got a whole house to paint and tinker with."

He says it a little cheekily, and Steve breaks into a smile, eyes narrowed. He looks almost fond, and Bucky rather likes it.

* * *

The windows are to be delivered and fitted on Monday. Bucky arrived last Sunday, and after a week of working on the house, this past weekend was spent mostly reading in his hotel room. Every now and then, though, he actually walked around the town for a bit, taking it in. It's a nice town, he's decided. Its vibe falls somewhere between charming and modern, with late 19th century wooden houses mixed in with modern buildings and restaurants.

Up until he and Steve actually got to work on the house, the other day―i.e. the porch―Bucky didn't really see Steve for more than an hour or so, at a time. It was all theory, planning, putting in orders and deciding when and how to do this and that. Now that all that's done, it's time to really get to work. Which is why Bucky, come Monday morning, is all prepared with his ratty jeans, t-shirt and hoodie, sitting on the porch steps of his house. Behind him, the front door is wide open, cans of paint sitting on the porch, and Bucky is leaning back with his elbows on the top step and face tilted toward the sky. The sun is shining, but it's not yet late enough in the day for the mid-August sun to be too overbearing.

The sound of wheels on gravel makes Bucky look up, but he doesn't move as he watches Steve's truck drive up to the house, appearing from behind the slight curve of the tree line. Instead, he feels a small smile creep onto his face, and he raises a hand in greeting as Steve catches his eye through the windshield. A smile from Steve, and the truck is pulled over, the engine falling silent.

"Hey," Steve calls, as he gets out. He slams the door shut behind him. "I brought a friend today, hope you don't mind."

Bucky frowns, straightens where he sits, and doesn't really have a chance to reply before Steve has gone around the truck and opened the passenger side door. Out jumps a dog, about the size of a German Shepherd, panting happily as it immediately starts trotting around the area. It looks like a mutt, short-haired in shades of brown, black, and gray, its ears half-folded. Its snout kind of resembles that of a hound, and the dog is clearly ecstatic to be here.

"This is Sarge," Steve says, gesturing at the dog, who perks up a little at the sound of its name. Then Bucky notices a particular detail, and he lets out a disbelieving groan.

"Oh, come on," he says, throwing his hands up. Steve frowns, confused.

"What?" he says. "You don't like dogs?"

He looks as though the mere thought of that concerns him as well as makes him question any kind of friendship he may have started to form with Bucky.

"You have a three-legged dog," Bucky exclaims, gesturing at said dog.

"Yes?" Steve's apparent uncertainty turns the reply into a question, glancing back at Sarge, whose missing right front leg isn't stopping him from eagerly exploring his surroundings. "So?"

"So, you're like a walking stereotype." Bucky gestures at Steve now, with both hands, as though at a loss for words. "I mean, in a good way, but still." He narrows his eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"What's your big, dark secret?" Bucky continues.

"What makes you so sure that I have one?" Steve says, amused. He seems to be humoring Bucky now, put at ease with this reassurance that the dog itself isn't the issue.

"You have to," Bucky says, folding his arms. "You're too―" _Don't say perfect. _"Wholesome."

Steve chuckles.

"No big, dark secret." He cocks his head. "That I know of."

"Uh-huh."

"Though, I might have a murder room in my basement." Bucky just narrows his eyes further, and Steve laughs. "Just kidding. It's not in my basement."

With that, he claps a hand on Bucky's shoulder and brushes past him, heading up the porch steps and into the house. He lets out a short whistle, and Sarge immediately trots over to follow. He stops halfway, though, giving Bucky a thorough sniff and a tail wag, before heading into the house, after Steve.

Bucky tilts his head back, letting out a heavy breath.

"You're lucky there's no furniture, yet," he calls into the house as a warning to the dog, before getting up to go inside.

Sarge turns out to be rather welcome company. He stays out of the way, clearly used to being around work and movement, and spends most of his time just napping on the porch, in the shade. There are some large pine trees and oaks near the house, currently blocking out some of the sun, and it suits Bucky just fine. While Steve is putting in the windows that need replacing, Bucky is busy painting the house's exterior.

He went with red, in the end. Dark, dusty red, with dark brown, almost black corners and trimming. Not too goth at all. In fact, Bucky particularly likes the color combination along with the woods around it, as well as the lighter, more modern colors in town. It gives the house a sense of age, he likes to think. Hopes so, anyway. Maybe even a little mystery.

He's not sure how long he's been painting. He started right after lunch―lunch brought from a popular grill in town, courtesy of Steve―and with his headphones in and music playing, he's been letting his mind wander rather freely. He's painted as much as he can reach on a ladder, up to just below the third floor, and is now stationed on the ground, painting an outside wall of the drawing room. The gravel path that leads around the house is overgrown with grass and weeds, back here, but it's fine. It's not exactly a priority, in terms of renovating the house.

Bucky is just about to dip his paint brush in the can on the ground, when something enters his field of vision.

"Jesus―" he exclaims, actually jumping in surprise. He yanks his headphones out, only to look up and see Steve standing there, hands raised in front of him.

"Sorry," Steve chuckles, as Bucky takes a deep breath and gives him a flat, tired look.

"It's not funny," he says, pointing at Steve with his brush. Steve just grins, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"It's a little funny," he says.

"I could've attacked you," Bucky says, waving the paint brush in his face, headphones clutched in his other hand. "Made a whole mess of that pristine shirt of yours."

_Pristine _may be an odd choice of phrasing, but it's true; Steve's white t-shirt somehow always remains impeccably clean no matter what, aside from the occasional dust or sweat.

Steve raises his eyebrows. Then he glances at the brush in Bucky's hand―just having been dipped in paint―and slowly grabs Bucky by the wrist. His hand is warm, his grip firm, and while Bucky is distracted thinking about that, Steve guides his hand so that the paint brush ends up squarely in his chest. Then he moves Bucky's hand downward, slowly―Bucky is suddenly mesmerized by the gently forced movement―only to drop it once the brush reaches the bottom hem of his shirt. Bucky looks up then, sees the wide, bold, and messy red stripe going down Steve's chest and stomach.

"I wouldn't stress about it," Steve says. Bucky meets his eye, and oh shit, why is it so hot out here, all of a sudden?

"Fair enough," Bucky says warily, holding Steve's gaze in mock suspicion as he turns back to the wall. Best to just look away from this guy as much as possible, at the moment. Bucky needs to pull himself together.

Steve huffs a laugh, and seems to just watch Bucky for a few moments, before taking a step back, as though to get a better look at the wall.

"You know," he says conversationally, "I wasn't sure this color would work."

Bucky frowns.

"Are you saying you doubted my taste?" he says, and Steve makes a so-so kind of noise.

"I mean," he says. "Yeah, I guess." Bucky throws him a slightly outraged look when he doesn't even attempt to lie or talk his way out of it. In response, Steve just laughs warmly, as though hurrying to pacify Bucky. "I'm kidding." He puts a hand on Bucky's upper arm, and _nope_ that shouldn't feel as good as it does.

"I don't know," Bucky says dramatically, going back to his painting. He made an effort not to smudge around the windows before, but has now given up; he's going to be painting those too, anyway, in a darker color. "I'm feeling pretty hurt, Steve."

"I'm sorry," Steve says, but there's a smile in his voice. His hand is still on Bucky's arm. "What I was trying to say was, it looks really good."

"Does it?" Bucky asks in that same, somewhat dramatically hurt tone.

"It does." Steve takes a step closer, and something in Bucky's stomach tightens. Not in an entirely unpleasant way. "A shade or two in either direction would have messed it up. This one's just right."

His voice is a little lower now, closer, and Bucky is sure its effects are unintentional. Effects, as in that shiver that suddenly surges its way up along Bucky's spine.

"Uh-huh," Bucky says, managing to keep his voice steady. His hand holding the brush seems to have frozen mid-stroke, and he makes sure to get it going again. "Thanks for telling me that now," he says, that calm confidence back. "If you'd done it once the whole house was painted, it would've been really awkward."

Steve chuckles.

"Yeah," he says, his voice not quite as low as a moment ago. He takes a step back, his hand disappearing with it, and Bucky feels his shoulders relax. There's the slightest hint of disappointment there, too, but he tries not to think about that. "Uh, I came out here to see if you were hungry. If you wanna grab an early, end-of-the-workday dinner."

Bucky looks over his shoulder. He honestly hadn't even considered why Steve was here, too distracted by how much he enjoyed him being here, to begin with.

"What time is it?" he asks.

"A little past five," Steve says, and Bucky's eyebrows rise. He hadn't realized it had been that long. He turns to the wall, takes a few steps back. Ten or so steps further, and he'd be backing into the forest.

"I think I wanna finish this, first," he says, eyeing his handiwork. He'd guess he's got about ten percent left to paint, which shouldn't take more than an hour. It's all on the bottom half, too, so he won't need to climb on a ladder any more, today.

"Okay," Steve says. "I'll wait."

"What?" Bucky turns to him. "No, you can go, it's fine. You're technically done for the day."

Steve half-smiles, as though considering it for a moment.

"I'll wait," he repeats. "I can get started on putting in the new spindles for the porch."

"But you―" Bucky tries, feeling a little bad about Steve staying not just past the end of his workday, but clearly putting off eating, as well.

"Buck," Steve interrupts, and _god _Bucky doesn't know why he likes him shortening his name like that, but he does. "It's fine. Finish this, we'll go eat, after. If you want to?"

It seems to occur to Steve then that Bucky hasn't actually outright accepted his invitation, and there's just a split second of something like embarrassment beneath the steady confidence.

"No, I do," Bucky hurries to say, and Steve relaxes. It's barely noticeable, but it's there. Or maybe it's just wishful thinking, on Bucky's part. "I do. I just don't like leaving something _almost _done, so―" He gestures at the wall, and Steve smiles. One of those somehow tired, but genuinely happy smiles that Bucky has come to consider a very _Steve _kind of expression.

"Got it," Steve says, hands in his pockets. "Then I'll come back in an hour."

Bucky nods, watching Steve's back as he leaves. Damn, he's got a great back. As soon as he disappears around the corner to the front of the house, though, Bucky puts his headphones back in and gets back to work.

* * *

They end up spending a lot of time together. A lot. Every day, Monday to Friday, Bucky and Steve work on the house, patching it up and replacing what needs to be fixed. Phil very happily extends Bucky's stay at the hotel for another month, and two weeks into the house renovation, a friend of Steve's comes in to check and fix the wiring. A talkative and somewhat conceited mechanic-engineer type, who clearly has the potential to make much more of himself than a small-town jack of all trades.

"This is atrocious," he says plainly, gesturing at some exposed wires in what will become an upstairs bedroom. "And I'm not even gonna get started on the wallpaper."

He gets the job done, though, and while his snarky attitude gives Bucky the impression of a massive asshole, he's sure he must be wrong. Steve likes the guy, after all, and clearly trusts him. So does Sarge. So there must be something good in there.

"I don't know much about the electrical stuff," Bucky says, leaning against the doorway as the man's surprisingly nice car drives away from the house, "but I'm pretty sure he went a little overboard."

"Tony doesn't half-ass things," Steve explains, and there's a certain exasperated fondness in his voice. "If something can be improved, it's gonna be improved until he finds a way of improving it even more."

Bucky hums, pushing away from the doorway.

"Well," he says, "as long as no guests end up electrocuted, I'm happy."

Steve lingers on the porch for a second, before following him into the house.

"As in, _your _guests?" he asks, halfway between careful and amused. Bucky frowns, stops dead and spins slowly on the spot. Steve looks as though he isn't sure if he just overstepped.

"What do you mean?" Bucky eventually asks.

"I mean," Steve says, slowly taking a step closer, hands in his pockets. They're still in the foyer, which has become just as clean as the rest of the house, over the past couple of weeks. "Your guests, as in... You'll be staying?"

Bucky isn't quite ready for that question. Where he had a solid answer a couple of weeks ago, he's suddenly not so sure. In all honesty, though he hasn't quite considered it until this moment, he hasn't even thought of New York since he talked to Sharon, a few days ago.

"I don't know," he says, slowly, uncertainly. Steve's eyebrows rise.

"That's not a 'no'," he says, and he sounds so pleasantly surprised that Bucky has to avert his eyes and turn back around.

"It's an 'I don't know'," he says, aimlessly wandering into the drawing room.

The house has gone through quite the transformation, since he and Steve have been working on it. Some of the rooms upstairs still need a coat of paint, and the private floor at the top has barely been touched, aside from being cleaned. The small balcony attached to one of the double rooms has only been affected by weather and lack of maintenance, so there's not much to do there. And at least all the plumbing in the house has been fixed up and replaced where needed, including new cupboards and toilets and showerheads. Especially the third floor bathtub, which no longer gives Bucky a phantom UTI.

The drawing room, though, is coming into its full potential. Bucky sees it, now. With the new window panes, repainted walls, the impressive fireplace in the corner―this could really become something.

"Which isn't a 'no'," Steve says, following Bucky into the room. He comes to stand beside him, in the middle of the space, where Bucky is admiring the fireplace and its impressive mantel. The dark wood of it matches the beams and architraves along the walls, the floor, around the doorways. It's a theme that runs throughout the house, even the wood and color of the staircase.

Bucky turns to Steve.

"What's it to you, anyway?" he asks, but there's no real heat behind it. Steve tilts his head.

"Maybe I'm just trying to recruit you," he says. "Make you one of us."

"A city boy like me?" Bucky says dryly.

"Yeah," Steve says with a laugh. "Maybe there's hope for you, yet."

Bucky hums, pressing his lips together. He turns back to the fireplace, then glances over at the large bay window. The view is a little messy, with the unkempt outside of the house, but it's going to look great once it's all fixed up. The swaying hickory, oak, and pine will make for a rather cozy, nature-embracing atmosphere, especially once fall really kicks in.

"Well, maybe it's growing on me," Bucky says quietly.

"The town?" Steve asks. Bucky replies before he can stop himself.

"That, too."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, there's the slightest drop in his stomach, and he turns back to Steve―who's just watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. Damn, it's a nice face.

After a few very long seconds, Steve smiles.

"I'm glad," he says, and somehow, the sound of his voice suddenly makes Bucky's knees go weak. He doesn't falter, though. He stays standing, eyes on Steve, and eventually manages to nod. What is wrong with him?

"Wanna tear a wall down?" he suddenly blurts, so abruptly that Steve actually pulls back a little.

"Uh," he starts.

"In the kitchen," Bucky clarifies. "The one to the storage room. Corner. The small one."

_Shut up, Barnes._

Steve takes a second to catch on, and then he smiles. His little laugh is more of an exhale, and it sounds almost relieved.

"Sounds fun," he says. "I'll go get a sledgehammer."

He turns away and starts toward the front door.

"Two sledgehammers," Bucky says, and Steve throws a grin over his shoulder.

"Two sledgehammers," he promises, and heads out to his truck.

It turns out that tearing walls down _is _fun. Bucky had every suspicion that it would be, but getting to slam a giant hammer into a hard surface and watch it loudly smash a hole open is _immensely_ satisfying.

They kind of work together at first, he and Steve, but Bucky kind of zones out a little bit after a while. It's not until he's panting and sweaty that he notices Steve has stepped back, and he straightens, looks around to find Steve leaning against the adjacent wall. His arms are folded, his hammer has been sat down on the floor, and he's watching Bucky with a curved, amused smile on his face.

"Sorry," Bucky says, or rather pants. Steve shakes his head.

"No, no," he says easily. "Go ahead. You clearly need this more than I do."

Bucky gives him a disgruntled look, but Steve's smile is contagious. Bucky ends up just scoffing, closing his eyes as he rolls his shoulders and his neck. He knows he's going to feel sore tomorrow.

"Lot of pent up rage," he jokes, but it's not entirely untrue, not really. Said rage just hasn't really presented itself, until now. Until it got the opportunity and excuse to wreak some wanton destruction.

"I'll bet," Steve says. It's joking, too, but just as aware that it's not really a joke, at all.

Bucky huffs a laugh, turns to the wall. He's just over halfway through his task, a jagged, gaping hole allowing him to peer into the small storage space within. It really is a useless room. Hard to get in and out of, not really having fulfilled a purpose for at least a few decades, what with this kitchen's modern refrigerators and gadgets and proper storage methods. All that was in this little room upon discovery was an old broom and some buckets.

"A tip, though," Steve says, managing to not sound patronizing at all. "Use your back more, and the legs. You're putting too much weight on your arms, at the moment."

Bucky huffs out a sigh, but it's tired, rather than annoyed. He wants to cheekily ask Steve to come over and show him, already giddy at the thought of having him pressed up so close. But, thankfully, Bucky knows when to shut up. Most of the time.

"It's like a baseball bat," he jokes, swinging the hammer a little, and Steve raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah," he says dryly, "a ten-pound, top-heavy baseball bat. Requires a slightly different technique."

Bucky snorts, and Steve positively glows.

"Fine, Mr. Carpenter," Bucky says, raising the hammer and settling it more comfortably in his hands and turning to face the wall. "You can take over once I've worn myself out."

"Take your time," Steve says. The words are low, a little distracted, and Bucky hates how the shift only enhances the lovely timbre of Steve's voice. He does have a nice voice. Safety- and arousal-inducing kind of nice, and don't think Bucky hasn't noticed. He has probably noticed it a little too much, actually, especially more recently.

It's after about another fifteen minutes of smashing that Bucky determines that he can barely move his arms, anymore. He ends up just straightening where he stands, dropping the hammer from where it dangles a couple of inches off the floor. The doorway has been removed, and there isn't that much left of the wall to break down.

"You done?" Steve asks, and Bucky just grunts, prompting a laugh from Steve. It's only when Bucky feels a pair of strong hands on his shoulders that he opens his eyes―he hadn't even realized that he closed them. "Sit down."

Bucky just blinks at Steve, his brain slowly catching up with the exhaustion of his body, and _god _Steve is so fucking pretty and it's all Bucky can think about.

"Right," Bucky says, before he can do or say anything considerably more stupid.

Steve holds his gaze, his grip comfortably tight on Bucky's shoulders, as though afraid he might fall over. Bucky doesn't, but he swears he almost does when Steve slides one hand down along his arm and gently turns him toward the direction of the lone chair sitting nearby. To make it even worse, his hand comes to settle against the small of Bucky's sweaty back, and Bucky is about to fucking scream. Thankfully, it only lasts a second or two, and Bucky slumps down onto the chair once Steve gently releases him. The kitchen hasn't been furnished yet. They've replaced the fridge, freezer, and stove-oven combo, and all that's in here is stuff that has practically been nailed down.

"I got this," Steve says, and Bucky just dopily watches him get to work.

"Of course, you do," he blurts without thinking, but Steve doesn't respond. Bucky swears he glimpses a grin, though. And even though Steve finishes up the rest in silence, Bucky has no qualms about just sitting there. And he has no problem staring at Steve the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on [the twitters](http://twitter.com/lemonoclefox) if you like. See you next Thursday!
> 
> Also, Tom is an OC, for anyone wondering. I just couldn't think of a good MCU equivalent for that kind of character, so here we are. Also also, especially with FATWS coming up, I'm intrigued by a potential Bucky/Sharon friendship, so here we are with that, too. Also also also, for anyone wondering about Bucky's hair, think something along the lines of Sebastian's CACW press tour hair, because this kind of thing is relevant to the story always yes of course.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this story has been so lovely, thank you so much. I'm having a fun time writing it, and it's nice to know it's not just me!
> 
> Next Thursday I'll be posting the third and final chapter, but I've also got a multi-chap WIP going [over here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839784/chapters/42095321) if you're into that (the updates have been a little slow, but it's still going, I promise). Either way, enjoy!

September comes with what feels like an overnight shift to autumn. A couple of weeks in, and gone is the late-summer warmth and balmy evenings, as well as the bugs flitting around the air at sunset. Instead, the leaves on the trees have started turning red around the edges, and Bucky finds himself putting on his dark blue peacoat before heading out from the hotel to get in his rental and drive to the house. His house.

Steve is always either already there when Bucky arrives, or shows up just minutes after, and today is no exception. When Bucky pulls up to the house, Steve is leaning against the front wall, next to the porch, watching Sarge enthusiastically sniff at something near the edge of the woods. When Steve sees Bucky, though, he straightens, a smile lighting up his face. Seeing it makes something nice and warm glow in Bucky's chest.

"Hey," he says, getting out of the car. Sarge immediately perks up and runs over as fast as his three legs will carry him. Bucky crouches down and gives his face and ears a good rub, which satisfies Sarge enough for him to trot off and continue with whatever he was doing.

"Hi." Steve sounds a little breathless when he approaches Bucky, but Bucky is sure he's imagining it. It's just past eight a.m.―it's still chilly enough to affect that. Somehow. He's sure.

Steve looks more carpenter-ish and small town-bred than ever, in a wool-lined, brown leather jacket over his green plaid shirt. It looks soft from years of loving wear and work, which only adds to the effect of the beard that has settled on Steve's face over the past few weeks. Bucky loves the look more than he'll admit. More than he should. Probably.

"Ready to finish up the rest?" Bucky asks conversationally, and Steve scoffs, still smiling.

"Very ready," he says. With that, they head into the house, Sarge in tow, and close the front door behind them. It'll get warmer throughout the day, but it's still not quite warm enough to leave the door open, anymore.

All that's left to polish up is the very top floor, where they spend the next few hours and intend to spend their day until it's done. The living space, for anyone who might need it while running the inn. Maybe Bucky. He hasn't decided yet. Though, the thought of going back to his old life feels more and more distant, every day. For a lot of reasons, one of which is currently priming a wall in the bedroom, sleeves folded up to his elbows, a focused frown on his face. Focused, yet somehow relaxed. As though there is nowhere he'd rather be, nothing he'd rather be doing.

_God, _Bucky's got it bad for this guy. What started as some vague attraction quickly became a crush, and that's fine. Mostly. But now, well over a month into knowing Steve Rogers, Bucky knows for certain that it's a lot more than that. Being with Steve makes him feel... safe. Home. Like everything is just a little bit better, a little bit steadier, when he's around. As though he has his own gravity, pulling Bucky in and keeping him centered.

That's not just a crush. But even though Bucky knows what this is, he can't remember this kind of feeling being like this before. This... effortless. And he doesn't even know if Steve feels the same way. Why would he?

"This room has such great lighting," Steve says, stepping away from the wall to look at the windows.

Rather than being more like a tower, this turret is rather wide, and nicely transitions into the rest of the floor, which in turn has about half as much floor space as the two floors below. There's none of that turret-typical feeling of a wall of windows. Instead, this is a perfectly comfortable place to use as a bedroom, without compromising space or privacy. Opposite the windows are two plain walls at a ninety-degree angle. One of them has a door, and Bucky is currently standing in the doorway, watching Steve over by the other plain wall, to his left. All in all, Bucky supposes this room does feel more like a half-turret, of sorts. If that's a thing.

"Yeah," Bucky says absently, shaking himself out of the daze brought on by just watching Steve do Steve-things. He steps into the room, looks around. It feels bigger than before. Just like the rest of the house, it's still empty, but Bucky can now pretty easily visualize where a double-bed would go.

"You really lucked out, with this place," Steve says. Bucky turns to him. He's standing with his hands on his hips in that way that no one else can pull off, and he is beautiful.

"Yeah, I did," Bucky says, nodding. He puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans, hesitates for a moment, unsure what to say. He ends up looking back out into the hall, his eyes finding the two doors across from the bedroom. One leads to the fully equipped bathroom, and the other to that supply closet he explored when he first arrived. Between them and the bedroom is the staircase, a little narrower than the one leading from the first floor to the second.

"Still going with the office idea?" Bucky nearly jumps at the sound of Steve suddenly right next to him. He whips around, sucks in a sharp breath at the close proximity. _Christ._

"Yeah," Bucky says, perhaps a little too quickly. God, Steve smells good. A little sweaty, but that honestly just makes it better. "Don't know what else I'd do with it. It's big enough. And there's a window, and everything."

He jerks his thumb in the direction of said room, and Steve nods. His gaze keeps flitting across Bucky's face, and Bucky can't move.

"It's a good idea," he says after a moment, with a cock of his head and eyebrows slightly raised. There's something so open about the gesture, something a little nervous maybe. It's a look Bucky hasn't really seen there before.

"Yeah," he says. He clears his throat, pulling his fingers through his hair. It's starting to get just a little too long, enough to not quite cooperate the way he's used to. "Thanks."

They maintain eye contact for a little longer, as though both waiting for the other to look away. It's Steve that finally does, even after several seconds of looking like keeping his mouth shut is taking all of his willpower to do.

"You decide on a theme, yet?" he asks suddenly, stepping back and pointlessly looking around the hallway that connects the bedroom with the rest. Bucky blinks.

"Uh, yeah," he says, turning around to follow Steve with his gaze. "I was thinking of leaning into the era of the house, at first, but I think I'm gonna mix it up a little bit. I mean, all the bathroom and kitchen stuff is being replaced and updated. I figured I'll keep half of the aesthetic, maybe. Modernize the rest."

Steve nods. He doesn't look _impressed_, per se, but he does seem pleasantly surprised by how much thought Bucky has put into it. And how clear of a vision he seems to have.

"I like that," Steve says, with a small smile. Bucky straightens a little bit, kind of likes having his instincts confirmed by Steve. Someone much more creative and artistic than himself. Based on his blunt honesty so far, Bucky doubts that he'd be saying this just to be nice.

"Thanks," Bucky says, for lack of anything else. "I was thinking about bringing in a designer or something, but I don't know. I feel like part of the charm of a place like this is that it looks more... lived in, maybe? Organic?" He shrugs awkwardly, the ideas coming out so much more clumsy than they are in his head. Steve seems to get it, though.

"No, I agree," he says, hands in his pockets. His flannel shirt is unbuttoned over his white t-shirt. The folded-up sleeves show off his strong lower arms rather nicely. "Places like this end up looking too polished, sometimes." He gives Bucky a just slightly mischievous look. "I'd be happy to give some feedback, though. If you want."

There's a sincere offer there, and Bucky smiles crookedly.

"Don't worry," he says. "I was gonna ask, anyway."

Steve smiles a little wider, looks down at the floor. He nods.

"Good."

It's just past three when Steve has to take his leave, having promised a neighbor to help out with their fence.

"Sorry to skip out early," Steve says as he exits the house, tugging on his leather jacket, and he sounds like he means it. Bucky follows him across the porch, slowly.

"No, don't worry about it," he says. "You've been here every day for weeks, working your ass off."

"I actually like working here," Steve says quietly, and Bucky would be lying if he said that didn't make him a little happy.

"Still," Bucky says, slowly making his way down the steps. Steve has already reached the ground, Sarge having gone ahead to sniff at a nearby tree.

"Yeah," Steve says absently. Then he abruptly stops and turns around, just as Bucky reaches the last of the three steps, and Bucky jerks to a halt. He almost trips and falls back, but manages to stay steady. "You doing anything tonight?"

Bucky blinks, looking down at him. With Steve on the ground and Bucky on the bottom step, Bucky is almost a head taller than him.

"Uh, tonight?" Bucky says, his brain catching up.

"Yeah," Steve says. He's got that look on his face, the determined one that makes him look like he could take on the world. Bucky needs to take a second, being on the receiving end of it. That hasn't happened before. It's quite... exciting, for lack of a better word.

"Tonight," he starts slowly. "No, I don't think I'm doing anything. I was just gonna stay here, start measuring up for the furniture and stuff."

They've already done that, the rough draft of it. Now Bucky has started eyeing stuff online, though, and he needs to check more exact measurements to know which kind of stuff he should put in 'no', 'yes', and 'maybe'-piles. Speaking of which, he really needs to get around to fixing some wi-fi for this place.

Steve nods, takes a breath.

"Okay," he says. "Well, there's this thing. In town. It's―" He tries again. "It used to be a harvest thing. Like, a little festival, I guess. Nowadays, it's mostly just shops staying open late, street vendors, games for the kids, and stuff. It's nice. Tourists start coming in, too, right about now. There's a bigger, proper fall festival in October around Halloween, but―"

He cocks his head, and Bucky nods slowly.

"Okay?" Bucky says. He's not sure what to say beyond that, instead just stares at Steve.

"And, uh―" Steve says, looking up at him. He puts his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "You should go."

"Uh―"

"I mean, do you wanna go?" Steve winces, just slightly. It's adorable.

"Yes?" Bucky says. He clears his throat. "Yes. That sounds... fun."

Steve's shoulders relax, and Bucky suddenly realizes that he has never actually seen him nervous, before. Not like this. Is _he_ making Steve Rogers_ nervous_? The mind reels.

"Great," Steve says, quirks a smile. "I'll, uh― I'll come by the hotel? Seven-ish?"

_Oh god_, Steve is picking him up later.

"Sounds good," Bucky says, nodding. Steve just stares at him for a second, still smiling softly. Then he snaps out of it.

"Okay, good," he says, taking a step back. "Then I'll see you then."

He turns around and emits a sharp whistle, patting his leg, and Sarge immediately comes bounding towards him. Steve opens the passenger side of the truck and the dog hops in, before Steve himself gets into the driver's seat. He gives Bucky a small wave, which Bucky reciprocates, before putting his hands back in his pockets. It's getting rather chilly outside, the sun really only warming up the place when it's shining right on it.

Bucky watches the truck drive down to the dirt road and out of sight, behind the trees. It's only when he hears the engine rumble off into the distance that he takes a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders. He fully intends to keep working for another hour or so, but his mind is suddenly racing. It's fine, though. He'll just head back to the hotel and take a shower later. Before Steve picks him up. To go to whatever little festival the town is putting on.

This is fine. Bucky heads back inside.

* * *

Bucky is unreasonably nervous, once seven o'clock comes around. He shouldn't be, he doesn't know why he is. It's perfectly natural for Steve―arguably his only friend in this town, aside from a handful of acquaintances―to invite him along for something like this. It doesn't mean anything. It's just Bucky projecting, letting his own feelings cloud his judgment. It's just a crush, that's all. A pointless, distracting crush.

"You heading out, Mr. Barnes?" Phil asks, when he spots Bucky just kind of loitering in the small lobby. Bucky looks up.

"Yeah," he says. "To the―" He gestures out the door, and Phil smiles.

"The festival," he finishes, and Bucky nods. "You know, you should see what we do for Halloween. It's pretty impressive."

"Can't wait," Bucky says, quirking a polite smile. He's not lying, though; he's curious to see how big a town like this goes at peak autumn-tourist season.

"How's the big renovation going, by the way?" Phil says. "If I may ask."

"It's going well," Bucky says. He doesn't mind this small-talk, not like he usually does. Phil has a certain dry humor about him, a vibe that tells you he's nearly impossible to offend. If Bucky were to simply not engage, he wouldn't care or mind. Bucky appreciates that. It feels more authentic than most people he'd talk to in New York, especially those paid to be smiling and pleasant toward even the most aggressively rude of assholes. Bucky always felt kind of bad for them, can't imagine how draining it must be.

But in a town like this, that kind of shitty behavior simply won't fly, and people won't hesitate to make that clear.

"Think you'll be ready to compete with me this year?" Phil asks lightly, and Bucky huffs a laugh.

"Maybe," he says. "Hopefully." He cocks his head. "Though, at worst, I'd steal maybe a handful of guests from you, so I'm sure you'll recover."

Phil smiles.

"That's reassuring."

The entrance doors open then, and Bucky whips his gaze toward the sound. He sees Steve through the windows before he even has a chance to step inside, and something cold and hot all at once immediately shoots through Bucky's chest and plummets into his stomach.

"Hey," Steve says with a smile, spotting Bucky. Bucky already let him know he'd be waiting inside, given the chill, and Steve, of course, didn't mind at all.

"Steve," Phil says, pleasantly surprised, while Bucky just grins like a fool. "Good to see you."

"You too, Coulson," Steve says. Bucky frowns a little bit, wonders if Phil is usually addressed by his last name. He hasn't mentioned it when Bucky has addressed him by his first. Maybe it's a familiar thing, reserved for those who actually know him. Which seems paradoxical, somehow.

"What can I do for you?" Phil asks, and Steve gestures at Bucky.

"Oh, I'm just here for him," he says, and something about the phrasing makes a nice warmth curl in Bucky's gut. Phil's eyebrows rise.

"Oh," he says, said surprise quickly giving way to intrigue. "You going to the festival, too?"

"Yeah," Steve says, nodding. He, meanwhile, doesn't seem at all aware of the vibes emanating from both Bucky and Phil. As though there's nothing odd or noteworthy at all about him stopping by to pick up someone that he, for all anyone knows, isn't even good friends with.

"Hm," Phil says. His eyes go from Steve to Bucky, then back again. A small smile curls his mouth. It's more amused, than anything. "Well, I'm glad to see you're getting along. It would've been hell on my reputation if I'd recommended someone and it ended badly."

Steve chuckles, and Bucky huffs something of an awkward laugh.

"Your reputation is intact," Steve says. He glances at Bucky. "It was a good recommendation."

That warmth in Bucky's gut stirs.

"I bet it was," Phil says, looking down and absently shuffling something around. Bucky isn't quite sure what to make of that, but he feels like it's his and Steve's cue to leave.

"Well, it was good seeing you, Coulson," Steve says, raising his hand in a wave.

"You, too." Phil smiles, and Bucky gives him a half-awkward smile, heading out the door when Steve holds it open for him.

"I'll have him back before curfew," Steve jokes, as the door falls shut behind them.

It's still light outside, and not too cold, but Bucky knows it's only a matter of time. These things change quickly once autumn really hits; just a couple of weeks ago, he and Steve sat on the porch of the inn while having lunch, in the warm sun. None of that, now.

Well, at least not the warm sun part.

"So," Bucky says, once they've started down the street outside the hotel. "Where to?"

"First," Steve says, clearly having a plan of some kind. Bucky tries not to let that get to his head. "Food."

As if on cue, Bucky's stomach rumbles a little, but Steve thankfully doesn't seem to notice.

"I could eat," Bucky says with a small smile.

"Good," Steve says. His face positively shines with soft excitement, and Bucky's stomach does a little flip, instead.

Although Bucky supposes that putting an entire town's population―however small―in the same place is bound to become crowded, he still isn't quite ready for actually seeing it. Steve laughs a little at his expression, when they reach the town square, just down the street from the hotel. There are people _everywhere_, with vendors and displays, and even some carnival games. Kids are running back and forth, flustered parents caught between stressing about it and laughing about how endearing and hopeless it is. Bucky supposes that there must be a certain kind of safety, in a town like this. Everyone knows everyone, to some degree, and trust each other with their children.

"Well?" Steve asks, as they make their way through the crowd, most of which is gathered toward the edges of each improvised aisle of vendors. The cobblestone underfoot makes it somehow even more idyllic, as do the warmly lit bulbs that have been strung up between the stands on either side. Bucky smiles a little.

"It's nice," he says. "Not what I expected."

"What were you expecting?"

Bucky shrugs.

"Not sure," he says. "I've lived my whole life in the city, the whole concept of small towns like this is kind of foreign to me, to be honest. I guess I didn't expect it to feel so... active."

Steve huffs a laugh.

"I get that," he says. His hands are in his pockets, and Bucky glances down as their elbows brush together for a second. He can barely feel it through his coat, but somehow, any physical contact with Steve has become its own type of acute sensation.

They peruse the food options, Bucky happy to get something from a street vendor, rather than having a sit-down meal. He ends up getting some pulled pork with mashed potatoes―both made from scratch, the vendor insists, including the choice of pig―while Steve opts for a good, old-fashioned cheeseburger. They eat while they walk, Steve returning smiles and greetings of recognition from random people, as they go. Half of them give Bucky curious glances, though not exactly negative ones.

"What is up with that?" Bucky says, as what must be the tenth person walks away, after eyeing him up and down. Steve cocks his head.

"Told you," he says. "You're a novelty."

"Yeah, weeks ago," Bucky points out.

"Small town," Steve explains. "You're new, and clearly not a tourist. And the word about your work on the old Pierce house has spread around. Plus, they're probably curious about why you're constantly seen with me."

Bucky chokes on air for a second, and disguises it as a cough.

"How so?" he manages to ask. Steve shrugs, deliberately avoiding his gaze, now.

"You know," he says. Bucky doesn't know, but he doesn't press for more clarification; Steve doesn't seem up for providing it, at the moment.

Once their meals are finished, Bucky now pleasantly full, they head to a pub that Bucky has passed by several times since he first arrived. It's located on the corner of the square, and despite the chilly temperatures that come with the late-ish hour, the doors are wide open.

"You want anything?" Steve asks, almost walking backwards into the place, so he can keep his eyes on Bucky's. "Drink?"

"Beer," Bucky says, a little flustered by the attention Steve is giving him. "Please."

Steve quirks a crooked smile, as though amused by the politeness.

"Coming right up," he says, and Bucky sort of trails behind him as he makes his way over to the bar.

It's just as crowded in here as outside, but much louder, given the small space. Before Bucky has much of a chance to observe, find a seat, or even feel awkward and out of place, Steve is back by his side.

"Here you go," he says, holding out a bottle of beer. Bucky finishes unbuttoning his coat before accepting it.

"Thanks," he says. Steve is positively glowing.

"Come on," Steve says, placing his hand behind Bucky's shoulder to steer him away from the spot. Bucky swears he can feel the touch radiate through the fabric of his coat and right down to his skin.

He doesn't ask where they're going, just lets Steve drag him along toward the back. There, a group of people are in the middle of laughing at some tale or other regaled by one of them. Once they come closer, Bucky recognizes the guy next to him as the engineer-electrician-whatever that fixed up the wiring at the house, Tony.

"And I say, 'boom, you looking for this?'" Tony's friend finishes, and the context must be completely lost on Bucky, because everyone laughs a little louder as though this line is hilarious. The guy looks satisfied, raising his bottle with a small smile, and Tony claps his shoulder.

"See, Rhodey?" he says. "Told you, you just need the right audience."

"Yeah, yeah," the guy says, lifting Tony's hand off as though it's offended him.

"Rogers!" Tony exclaims then, pointing at Steve. Everyone else turns. "Was wondering where you were. And you brought your friend!"

Bucky flushes, stupidly grateful that it either doesn't show in this light, or can be chalked up to the temperature shift, if it does. He also can't tell if Tony is being sincere, or not.

"Hi," Bucky says dumbly, with a small smile and a semi-awkward wave.

"Guys, this is Bucky," Steve introduces him. "He's the one fixing up the old house, outside of town."

While Bucky has always been the social type, with a great ease when it comes to making friends, he feels very out of place here. But Steve's friends are pleasant enough, introducing themselves and making some small-talk, before the group kind of just goes back to its non-specific conversation. Bucky doesn't mind. He actually rather likes it; it makes him feel like they've accepted him as one of their own. He also doesn't try to linger on the fact that Steve must have talked about him before, if even just for practical reasons, given that none of them seem confused as to who he is.

Someone else approaches them after a few minutes, and everyone lights up at the sight of him.

"I bring refreshments," the guy says loudly, and he's met by cheers, as he hands out a few bottles of beer to those waiting. He then notices Steve and Bucky, and his face turns surprised and apologetic. "Oh, I didn't know there were more of us. I should've brought―"

"It's okay," Steve reassures him with a smile. "We just got here. Bucky," Steve says, gesturing at the guy. "This is Thor."

Bucky is quite sure he has never seen a real life lumberjack before, and definitely not one who fits the type to a T. But Thor is everything he could imagine and more. Tall, broad, with pulled-back, blond hair and a thick beard. He's wearing an actual red-plaid flannel shirt, rolled up to his elbows. Blue eyes, a big smile and booming laugh. How is this guy even real?

"Oh," Thor says, eyebrows raised. "A pleasure."

He shakes Bucky's hand and god, is that an accent? A British lumberjack. Of course.

"Yeah, hi," Bucky says, at least pretty sure that he's holding his own in terms of grip. Thor's is surprisingly accommodating. "You, too."

"Steve tells me you've taken over the old Pierce estate?" Thor says conversationally, releasing Bucky's hand and taking a swig of beer. The rest of the group is still talking amongst themselves.

"Yeah," Bucky says, nodding. "Trying to fix it up a bit. It's going okay."

"Okay?" Steve asks, and Bucky turns to him. He sounds half-joking and half-serious, as though a little surprised, almost offended. "I'd say it's going more than okay."

"Well, you're the one doing most of the work," Bucky explains, a little awkwardly. "I just―"

"Had the initiative to get it done, in the first place," Steve points out. "You're the one who came here and actually took it on. You could've just sold it, or leveled it to the ground, and you didn't. And, also, you've been doing a hell of a lot more of the actual work than you seem to think."

Bucky blinks at him, unsure what to say.

"I've been asking Steve about it for weeks," Thor butts in. "He won't let me come see your progress."

"It'll have more of an impact when it's done," Steve says, with a small smile.

"Which will be when, exactly?" Thor asks. This time, it's directed mostly at Bucky, who shrugs.

"We're a week or so ahead of schedule," he says. "Just the furniture and actual decor left to go, so hopefully it'll be done by mid-October."

"Excellent," Thor says, grinning. "I look forward to it."

Bucky lets out a wry chuckle.

"Me, too."

They spend another half hour or so at the pub, before Steve drags Bucky back outside into the cold. Well, chill. But they've been inside a warm space for long enough that Bucky immediately throws on his coat and tugs it around him, the moment they step outside. Steve chuckles, and bumps him with his shoulder.

"Having a good time?" he asks. It's a casual question, but there's some apprehension beneath. Bucky nods.

"Yeah," he says with a grin, adjusting his scarf for optimum warmth. "I am. Your friends seem nice."

Steve nods, relieved. He smiles.

"They're great," he says. He cocks his head. "Pretty sure they've accepted you."

"Oh, they've accepted me?" Bucky says, eyebrows raised. "Wow. Sounds official."

"It's a pretty big deal," Steve says, in some kind of haughty mock-seriousness. "You should feel honored."

"I'm feeling pretty honored," Bucky says. "Don't worry."

They keep wandering around, the vendors and stands not just restricted to the town square. It all branches off onto streets and past other buildings, shops open longer than usual and traffic redirected away with roadblocks. Bucky isn't sure how long it's been since Steve picked him up, but he doesn't really care. He's having a great time, and the sun has set, and the lights are just so pretty.

"Okay, try this," Steve says, handing Bucky some kind of messy waffle, folded up in a napkin. Bucky takes it, frowns.

"What is it?" he asks suspiciously. Steve pays the vendor he insisted they stop by, and puts his hand at the small of Bucky's back to lead him away. It's a brief touch, very light, as though Steve catches himself doing it and pulls away.

"That," Steve says proudly, "is the local specialty. Waffles with pear ice cream and mint, sprinkled with bits of bacon."

Bucky bites his bottom lip, his mouth turned down in an exaggerated, apprehensive frown, eyes on the waffle in his hand.

"Please tell me you're joking," he finally says.

"Not even a little bit." Steve sounds way too happy about this. "See," he says, pointing out the various components. "Ice cream, mint, bacon. You can get some hot fudge sauce on top too, if you like―"

"I'm good, thanks," Bucky interrupts flatly.

"You should try it, though," Steve urges, and Bucky looks up at him with the most inconvenienced, disgruntled expression he can muster. Steve's face turns contrastingly sweet, puppy dog eyes cranking up to eleven. The worst part is, Bucky is pretty sure he's not even aware that he's doing it. "Please?"

_Jesus Christ._

Bucky grunts, and takes a breath before biting into the waffle, making sure to get a little bit of everything at once. He chews it slowly, while Steve watches expectantly, until Bucky swallows it down and smacks his lips. He shakes his head, mouth once again turned down in an exaggerated frown.

"No," he says. He looks up at Steve with an apologetic shrug. "Sorry."

Steve sighs.

"Fine," he says, taking the waffle out of Bucky's hands. "I guess I'll take this bullet for you, then."

Bucky half-expects him to throw the thing away, revealing it all to be some kind of practical joke, but no such thing happens. Instead, Steve bites right into the waffle, eyes closed as he chews.

"Oh, yeah," he says, mouth full. "That's it."

Bucky scoffs, shaking his head, and Steve just grins at him as best he can, while still chewing.

"You're a monster," Bucky mutters, and Steve just laughs.

"So," Steve says, once he has finished off the waffle-ice cream-mint-bacon monstrosity, a little while later. They're walking down the main street now, townspeople and tourists milling back and forth around them. Most of the little kids are gone, as it's now past their bedtime, and night has fallen. "How are you liking Pine Rock?"

Bucky frowns at him.

"I've been here over a month," he says.

"Well, yeah," Steve says, with a half-shrug. "That's my point. You've been here long enough to form a more solid opinion."

Bucky considers that for a second, but honestly doesn't really have to think about it much at all.

"I like it," he says honestly. "I really do."

Steve nods, seems happy to hear that. They walk for a little while longer, before he speaks again.

"You think you'd stay?" he asks. There's something careful beneath the casual question, but just barely.

"Honestly?" Bucky says, and Steve nods. Bucky exhales. "Probably not. I mean, for a while, sure. With the inn. A few years, maybe. Or come visit every now and then. But in the long-term?" He shakes his head. "I don't know. I need the city. I need― Just more, I guess. More than a town like this has to offer." He turns to Steve. "Don't get me wrong, it's grown on me. But as much as I like it here, it just wouldn't be enough."

Steve just watches him for a few seconds, and Bucky is suddenly afraid that he said the wrong thing. That he just drove Steve off. Steve loves this town, after all. What if it's some kind of dealbreaker, Bucky rejecting it?

Eventually, Steve nods.

"I know what you mean," he says, much to Bucky's surprise. He shrugs. "I mean, there's a reason I moved away, at first. The only reason I came back was 'cause I kind of had to, and I only stayed 'cause..." He looks straight ahead. "I love this town, I really do. It's home, and always will be. But you'd be surprised how often I feel frustrated by it. It's just too... small. In more ways than one."

Something about the phrasing puts Bucky on edge, and Steve must catch it.

"Not like―" he starts, turning to Bucky. "Not in that way. It's a small town, but we're also just a couple of hours away from one of the gayest places on the east coast."

Bucky huffs a surprised laugh, and Steve quirks a soft smile.

"Good to know," Bucky says, recalling how Provincetown did pop up a few times when he researched the area. How Steve knew exactly what he was just thinking is a mystery, though.

It occurs to him then that he and Steve have never actually addressed any of that out loud. Of course, Steve has known from the start that Bucky isn't straight, but that's it. Aside from the occasional comment about his dirtbag ex―which has only happened once or twice, when Bucky has felt particularly bitter about some memory or other, and Steve has humored him―the two of them haven't talked about anything in the vicinity of sexuality or dating. Shit, Bucky has no idea if Steve is even queer. He might not be. That would suck, for sure. Not that it would stop Bucky from crushing on him even harder than he already is, even though crushing on a straight guy always ends in heartbreak.

But Steve... He doesn't seem straight. Maybe that's just wishful thinking on Bucky's part, but he likes to think it's not. He'd like to think that he hasn't just been imagining how the tension between them has changed and grown over the past several weeks. And Steve's comment just now makes Bucky pretty positive that it's not just his imagination. And if Steve isn't straight, then maybe Bucky has a chance. Maybe. Just the idea of it makes an excited thrill run across his skin.

"So yeah," Steve considers absently. "I don't know if I'd stay, either. In the long-term."

Bucky nods slowly.

"It's nice right now, though," he says, turning to Steve, as they continue walking down the main street. Steve lets his gaze flit across Bucky's face, and for a second or two, every single person, light, and sound disappears from around them. Bucky takes a breath, as Steve's eyes settle on his own. Steve nods.

"Yeah," he agrees. "It is."

It's a beautiful night. Bucky feels a little cheesy just thinking that, but it's impossible not to. Lights strung above the main street, shops open late, people walking around with smiles and various edible things in their hands. The air is now just on the side of cold, carrying that distinctive shift in the air between the sweetness of summer and the decay of autumn. Bucky takes a deep breath. You can't smell it like this, back in New York. Every scent is always clouded by exhaust fumes and food and garbage, and even though he loves the city with all his heart, this is something else. It's still. Even with all the people around, it feels still.

It's when they reach a smaller side street that Bucky is glad he brought a proper jacket; the sun has gone down, and the warmth is quickly disappearing with it. Not that he would have said anything, if he were cold. He wouldn't, because he's honestly half-certain that Steve would've offered his own jacket, if he did.

The lake up ahead glitters nicely in the dark, lights from tied-up boats reflecting on the surface. There are a few people walking along the boardwalk, just wide enough to maybe accommodate a small vehicle, if need be. More string lights, strung up between lamp posts along the path, large bulbs swinging slightly as the breeze sweeps in from across the water. Bucky's eyes are fixed on them, so much so that he doesn't even notice the bike coming towards him.

"Watch it―" Steve says, grabbing his arm and yanking him to the side, just in time for the apologetic cyclist to swerve out of the way. Bucky blinks.

"Wha―" He glances at the bike disappearing along the path, then turns to Steve. Who is standing very close, all of a sudden, hand still gripping Bucky's upper arm. "Sorry."

He doesn't sound as embarrassed as he feels. He's too focused on the way the light bounces off Steve's features; warm and artificial, mingling with the cold tones of the half-moon in the sky. The soft-looking beard isn't helping. Bucky suddenly desperately wants to touch it.

"Don't worry about it," Steve says, his voice low. His eyes dart across Bucky's face for a second, as though checking that he's okay, and Bucky inhales slowly. Steve smells so good. How does he always smell so good? Even when he's sweaty and gross, he smells good. Come to think of it, though, Bucky detects the slightest hint of cologne, this time. It makes him want to bury his face in the crook of Steve's neck and just inhale, eyes closed and arms wrapped around him.

Steve slowly releases Bucky's arm, and Bucky relaxes. He stays close, though, just a little while longer.

"Thanks," he says. He gets a small smile from Steve, in return.

"Come on," is all he says, turning to keep walking down along the boardwalk.

Bucky follows, glances down between them, and has the weird impulse to take Steve's hand. It doesn't last more than a split second, and he very pointedly puts his own hands in his coat pockets and looks straight ahead.

It hits him then, out of nowhere; this is a date. Well, not really. But it _feels _like a date, it has _turned into _a date, even if it may not have been intended as one. He glances at Steve, as though to get some kind of confirmation or objection to this, but there's nothing. Steve is just looking straight ahead, only glances at Bucky when he clearly feels eyes on him, and Bucky quickly looks away.

Yep, definitely a date. An accidental date. An amazing, wonderful, appropriately awkward, accidental date. Bucky's pulse picks up a bit, a subtle flurry in his stomach.

This realization makes Bucky hyper aware of everything that happens, from then on. Every look, every word, every smile―it all comes with a distinct mix of excitement and fear. Maybe more fear than there should be. It's more than just nervousness or being self-conscious. It's the nearly overwhelming desire to just break into a run and get away from this situation, this feeling, as quickly as humanly possible.

But Bucky doesn't. He stays. He stays with Steve all the way to the end of the boardwalk, all the way to his hotel, and he doesn't bolt the second they arrive. Instead, they just stand there for a second, hands in their pockets. Bucky chews his lip, half-smiling. Steve smiles back, hunching up his shoulders a little, in what Bucky would assume is a slightly awkward gesture. If this were a date, it would be.

"I had a good time," Bucky eventually says. There's a trickle of people heading in and out of the hotel, as it's getting late. Bucky ignores them. All he sees is Steve. He kind of feels giddy, all of a sudden.

"Me, too," Steve says, nodding. "I really did."

_Kiss him, _Bucky's mind whispers unhelpfully. _Kiss him, kiss him._

"Yeah," Bucky says. He presses his lips together, uses every ounce of discipline he has to _not _let his gaze drop to Steve's mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Steve nods, his expression calm, but otherwise unreadable.

"I'll be there," he says. "I'll even bring breakfast."

Bucky breaks into a proper smile then, mirrored by Steve.

"Great," he says. He glances over his shoulder, at the hotel, lit up from the inside with a welcoming glow. "I should get to bed."

_Kiss him._

"Me, too." Steve heaves a heavy sigh, nods. "Night, Buck."

"Goodnight."

* * *

Bucky doesn't quite know what he expects, the next day. While last night _did _feel like some kind of date, he's also pretty sure that Steve wasn't exactly asking him out on one when he invited him along for that very public event. But regardless of intentions, from both of them, a date was kind of what it ended up being, and they both know it. At least Bucky thinks so. Hopes so.

Steve doesn't really confirm nor deny either way, unspoken or otherwise, when Bucky arrives at the inn, early in the morning. Steve has beaten him there, and is currently throwing a stick into the brush for Sarge to chase and very enthusiastically bring back. Bucky knows Steve has heard him―the sound of a car on gravel isn't exactly discreet―but he hasn't turned around yet. It's not until Bucky has gotten out of the car and shut the driver's side door that Steve turns.

"Hey," he says. There's a smile on his face, soft and maybe a little careful.

"Morning," Bucky says, with a crooked smile of his own. He puts his hands in his coat pockets, surprised by the chill, despite having felt it before getting into the car at the hotel. Sarge spots him then, and bounds over to get some customary, well-deserved head scratches, giving Bucky's hand a lick before running off again. He's highly invested in that stick, it would seem, because he finds it and brings it back over to Bucky, head held high. Bucky takes the stick―more of a branch, really―and tosses it back out into the trees, watching the dog run after it.

"So easily entertained," Bucky says, but with some fondness, and Steve breathes a laugh.

"Yeah," he agrees. He clears his throat, turns to Bucky. "So."

"So," Bucky blurts, meeting his eye.

"Got any furniture coming in yet?"

"Uh, yeah." Bucky nods. He feels tense, a little shaky, a little unsteady on his feet. Butterflies, sweaty palms, the whole shebang. _Seriously? _"Yeah, I got some proper measurements yesterday, ordered a couple of beds."

"Just a couple?" Steve asks.

"Well, they didn't have all of them in stock," Bucky explains. "So it's just two doubles, for now. The rest will take a little longer."

Steve nods slowly.

"Good," he says. "I mean, that it's... coming together."

"Yeah." Bucky pauses, chews his lip. "Actually, I was thinking about checking out a place not too far from here. It's pretty huge, apparently. Lots of used furniture. Old stuff, from estate sales and whatnot. Antiques? I don't know."

Steve eyebrows rise.

"You're going antique-shopping?" he teases, amused, and Bucky scoffs. He looks away with a somewhat self-conscious smile.

"No," he says. "Most of it's just old. Just straight-up old."

"Ah." Steve nods, an amused look on his face. "So you're gonna go shopping for old things?"

"Exactly." Bucky turns back to him. "Might add some character to this place." He gestures at the house, hand still in his coat pocket. The exterior does look pretty amazing, now that it's all done. With its new coat of paint and repaired spindles and trim, it looks much less abandoned and more... expensive, for lack of a better word.

"I don't know," Steve says, looking up at the house. "I'd say it has character, already."

"That's nice of you to say," Bucky says, eyebrows raised. "But it might be even better with some options to sit, and sleep, and stuff. Maybe even a table, or two."

"Right." Steve turns back to him. "So you're going antique-shopping."

Bucky frees a hand from his pocket just to shove Steve in the shoulder, and Steve snorts, but doesn't so much as stumble.

"Hey, fuck you, alright?" Bucky says lightly. He looks back up at the house, swallows. "I _was _gonna see if maybe you wanted to come, but―" He shrugs, the very picture of nonchalance― "Guess I'll just go by myself."

"You want me to go antique-shopping with you?" Steve says, seemingly unable to drop the teasing. But there's definitely a note of pleased surprise there, too, beneath it.

"Fine," Bucky says haughtily. "Stay here in the woods with your dog. I can find old stuff on my own, without you."

Steve laughs.

"Alright, alright," he says. "I'd be happy to go with you."

Bucky narrows his eyes at him.

"Oh, so _now _it's a good idea?" Bucky says. "Not laughing, anymore?"

"No, I am," Steve says lightly. "But if you're there, it might not be so bad."

And _oh _that swoop in Bucky's stomach takes him completely by surprise. So much so that he can't even react properly, instead just blinks before crookedly grinning in what he's sure must be an embarrassingly dopey and awkward kind of way. He glances down at the ground, kicks at the gravel a bit with his boot.

"Smooth," he says, looking back up. Steve looks absolutely delighted. Bucky clears his throat. "So when do you wanna go? I was planning on going later, or tomorrow, but―"

He trails off with a shrug.

"I'm good whenever," Steve says. Bucky hesitates.

"Now?" he asks. "They open in an hour or so."

Steve, to his surprise, doesn't even hesitate. He just nods.

"Yeah, now works," he says. "We can take the truck. In case we find something. You, I mean. In case you find something."

Bucky nods, smiling, with a small, excited stir in his chest.

"Sounds good."

Sarge comes along for the trip, napping in the backseat on the way there and then continuing to nap in the backseat while Steve and Bucky go inside. The place in question is, as Bucky said, pretty huge. More of a low-ceilinged warehouse, on the edge of a nearby town, stacked with all kinds of furniture and knickknacks, with even more stuff out back.

Bucky has no idea what he's looking for, really. He never expected to end up in this kind of place, ever, but as he went through his budget the other day, and what he needs to fill just the basic needs of the inn, he realized he might need to get a little thrifty. As it is, he's decided not to compromise on the beds, as well as the stuff for the kitchen and the bathrooms; no used stuff there. Everything else, he doesn't much care where it comes from, or whether it's old or new. It just needs to be sturdy, and look good.

"You gonna be using the dining room?" Steve asks, as they wander along an aisle of mismatched chairs, stacked on shelves. "You know, as a dining room."

"Thought I might," Bucky says, eyeing the vast selection around them. It's not a store, per se, and there's only a handful of people around, so far. More are bound to come in later on, though. The place seems to be the kind where a very particular type of person goes to find very particular, one-of-a-kind things, decor-wise. They hold auctions here sometimes, too, but Bucky prefers just finding a thing and buying it. He's never quite understood the rush of having to fight someone over something you're invested in and maybe not even end up getting it, in the end.

Most of the visitors are coupled up, Bucky notes. He tries not to let that get to him. He and Steve must look like they're just another couple like them, browsing together, and he's not sure how he feels about that. Giddy? Uncomfortable? Nervous? Probably all of the above.

Also, _antique-shopping_. God, Bucky feels like a walking stereotype, all of a sudden.

"I mean," he continues, "where else are people gonna eat?"

Steve huffs a laugh.

"Good point."

Bucky half-expects him to ask, yet again, if Bucky plans on staying. Just last night, he asked, and this kind of question has often enough been a precursor to it. But Steve leaves it at that. Bucky isn't quite sure why that disappoints him, somehow. Maybe Steve doesn't care anymore. Maybe he didn't see last night the way Bucky did, or maybe he decided that Bucky so blatantly saying that he wouldn't stay in this kind of town long-term truly was a dealbreaker.

Bucky swallows hard. His chest suddenly hurts.

It's overall a successful day. It takes a few hours―during which Steve goes to check on Sarge a few times, and takes him for a quick walk―but around noon, they're trying to as strategically as possible fit everything onto the back of the truck. Mostly, eight chairs that are miraculously all part of the same set. They're a little scuffed, and it took a solid forty minutes to locate and dig out all eight of them, which the owner swore were hidden somewhere in the mountains of things. But they're all there, only in need of some TLC and maybe some paint.

A few side tables, too. Bucky intends to put them in the rooms on the second floor, as well as a couple of bookcases he found. The large dining room table was a steal, if Bucky's being honest. He'll have to come back for these bigger things, though. While Steve's truck is roomy and capable, there's a certain limit to how much they can strap into the open back and still maintain some modicum of road safety.

The owner of the place promises to keep Bucky's other purchases safe until they can come pick them up, and Bucky and Steve head back to Pine Rock.

"Did you take any before-pictures or something, when you first got here?" Steve asks, almost out of breath after helping to lift all the relatively heavy wooden chairs into the house. Almost. Bucky tries not to stare too much at how effortlessly his muscles do the work.

"What?" he says, refocusing.

"Of the house," Steve says, gesturing around them. They're in the middle of the drawing room, having put all the stuff in here, since it's the most practically available room from the front door. "I mean, I remember how shitty it looked, but seeing the contrast could be fun."

"Actually, I did," Bucky says. "It's more satisfying that way."

Steve scoffs, smiling.

"Yeah, it is," he says, under his breath. His hands are on his hips, and he's looking around the room, with an absent expression. Almost sentimental. It's odd.

"Yeah," Bucky says, shaking off that feeling and continuing the inane small-talk instead. "I like tracking progress."

Steve nods, now smiling and back to his old self.

"Same," he says. He holds Bucky's gaze for a few moments, as though about to say something, and Bucky finds himself expectantly watching him. Steve decides against it, though, and instead just clears his throat, heading back out the front door. "I'll bring in the last of it."

Bucky sighs.

"Be right there."

They have some lunch, which is just as weirdly tense as the rest of the day. Not necessarily in a bad way, just... tense. Like they're avoiding something.

By the end of the day, they've taken two more trips to get all the furniture―Bucky insists that Steve doesn't have to, that he can go by himself if Steve lets him borrow the truck. But Steve reasons that they might as well get it over with. And Bucky supposes that he can't argue with that.

By the time it starts getting dark outside, Bucky just lets himself buckle under the exhaustion and slide down to the floor of the drawing room. They've finally carried in the last of the furniture, and he gazes at the small forest of bookcases, chairs, and tables, big and small. He feels a little proud, to be honest. Not just for doing the work, but for finding all the stuff, to begin with.

And for saving money. A lot of money. His budgeting skills have always been a point of pride for him.

"Hey." Bucky looks up, and finds Steve standing there. He's holding out a bottle, and Bucky glances at it, before taking it. It's beer, stocked in the fridge the other day by Steve, and he suddenly feels ridiculously thirsty.

"Thanks," he says, taking Steve's offered opener once Steve has used it on his own bottle cap. The cap pops off with a brief, satisfying _hiss_, and Bucky just tosses it on the floor. Steve slides down next to him, settling on the floor with his back against the wall. Perhaps a little closer than necessary. Their shoulders are touching, and Steve's is very warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He blessedly stripped down to it earlier, just like Bucky, when the exertion of all the physical labor started taking its toll. Bucky does not mind.

It's not until they've both taken a few sips that Bucky realizes something.

"Can't drive, now," he says. Steve turns to him, blinks, as though he hadn't realized this. Bucky continues a little awkwardly, knows that everyone has a different interpretation of what constitutes drunk driving and not. "I mean, maybe if―"

"No," Steve says. "No, it's not far, but― I have kind of a zero tolerance policy."

Bucky nods slowly, stupidly relieved at that logic.

"Same," he says, for lack of anything else. He watches Steve take another swig of beer. "So...?"

"I like walking," Steve clarifies with a small, somewhat reassuring smile. Bucky's mouth turns up in a thoughtful pout.

"I'd be up for a walk," he says. They both have to get back into town, after all. There's a small smile on Steve's face.

"Alright then."

The night is young. Even two hours later, it's not even close to midnight, but Bucky isn't really keeping track of the time, anyway. He's too busy wiping tears from his eyes as he folds over laughing, Steve stumbling over his own words. Bucky has gone from sitting next to Steve to sitting in front of him, after going to get more beer and sitting back down.

"It's not funny," Steve laughs. "I got detention for, like, two weeks."

"Wait, wait," Bucky says, catching his breath. "You're telling me you punched not one, but three people? Little skinny baby you?"

"It wasn't―"

"And what was the shield again?"

Steve exhales slowly, lips pressed together, as Bucky takes a swig of beer, schooling his features into what he knows must be a humorously controlled and calm expression.

"A trashcan lid," Steve mumbles through gritted teeth. Bucky snorts, covering his mouth to keep himself from spraying beer all over himself. "Okay, come on, it's not funny."

"I'm just―" Bucky coughs, clears his throat. "I'm just imagining you charging at 'em." He makes a kind of charging motion with his hand. "Just― Barreling through. Like a tiny freight train."

Steve groans, leans his head back against the wall with a _thud_.

"I knew I shouldn't have told you that story," he mutters.

"No, no," Bucky says, his laughter fading into a chuckle. "It was very admirable. You were defending a cat. Like an anime character. Ten-year-olds everywhere could only dream of such bravery."

He pats Steve's shoulder, perhaps grasping it a little longer than necessary. They're a few beers in, and he's too buzzed to care about how obvious it probably is that he's just looking for excuses to touch Steve, at all. Steve doesn't seem to mind, though. In fact, while he seems to be a generally tactile person, his hand has found its way to Bucky's arm and wrist and chest even more than usual. It's like a hot branding iron, every time.

Steve lifts his head to look at him. His expression is a slightly drunken mix of annoyed, flustered, and hopelessly fond.

"What, like you were a model student?" he says. Bucky straightens where he sits, legs crossed on the floor, across from Steve who's still sitting with his back against the wall, knees pulled up.

"I was," Bucky says indignantly. "Good grades, teachers loved me. Worst thing I ever got detention for what running late for class in high school, which I only did 'cause I was busy studying for whatever test was coming up."

Steve narrows his eyes, shakes his head.

"God, you would've been insufferable," he says. Bucky gently smacks his shoulder, earning a grin in return.

"Just 'cause I didn't go around picking fights," he says.

"Hey." Steve points at him. "I never _picked _fights. I just finished them." He cocks his head. "Tried to."

"Uh-huh," Bucky says. "And how'd that work out for you?"

Steve looks down at his beer bottle, picks a little at the label.

"Varying results."

Bucky scoffs, smiling as he brings his own bottle to his lips.

"You would've corrupted me, for sure," he mutters, taking a sip. Steve looks up at him from under his eyelashes. It's an unfairly endearing, yet incredibly hot move.

"In what ways?" he asks. Bucky gulps, taken aback by that suddenly low, soft tone of voice. He clears his throat.

"Don't know," he says. He shrugs. "Every way?"

Why did he say that? That's not what he meant to say. He's not even sure what it means. Steve catches it, though, and looks up properly, holding Bucky's gaze steadily with his own. There's that determination again, the one that's oddly jarring and exciting to be on the receiving end of.

"I would've liked that, I think," Steve says, his voice having dropped to that low timbre Bucky has heard before. It makes him shiver, almost violently, and he desperately hopes Steve doesn't notice. He grips his bottle a little tighter, trying to channel it, somehow.

"Yeah?" Bucky says. He's not sure how or why, but his own voice seems to have taken on a similar quality to Steve's. Steve nods, leans forward, elbows still leaning against his pulled-up knees. With Bucky hunched over, it brings their faces dangerously close together.

"Yeah," Steve says. A moment of hesitation. "Still would."

Bucky's hearing suddenly goes muffled. His vision narrows, zeroing in on Steve's face, his eyes. His lips, which Bucky's eyes drop to without permission. Steve looks a little drunk, like Bucky feels, his cheeks a little rosy and his beard so soft-looking that Bucky just stupidly wants to run his fingers over it. The air is charged with a tension so strong that it's almost uncomfortable. It's making it hard to breathe. Bucky has to part his lips a little for a proper inhale. It's a good thing, too; breathing through his nose means becoming utterly overwhelmed by how amazing Steve smells, so unbearably close.

Bucky doesn't realize that his hand has ended up on Steve's lower arm until he feels the hot slide of skin beneath his palm. Muscle moves and tenses under his touch, tightening as Bucky's hand settles loosely around Steve's wrist. His thumb grazes the back of his hand, and Steve swallows, eyes locked with Bucky's.

Bucky could kiss him right now. He could. He's about ninety percent sure that Steve wouldn't mind, that he'd even want him to. The thought leaves his heart pounding, his mouth dry.

It's a blessing and a curse that Sarge decides to take that moment to stretch very loudly, letting out a high-pitched yawn as his legs stiffen across the hardwood floor. He settles back down, smacking loudly, and falls back to sleep.

Bucky doesn't so much jerk away as swiftly retrieve his hand from Steve's wrist, leaving Steve blinking and a little dazed. Bucky isn't sure why he lets this tiny disturbance break the moment. There's nothing stopping him from just shaking it off and leaning back in, pressing his mouth to Steve's and melting into him, just like he wants to. Like he's wanted to do for weeks. Like he's been thinking about doing every single minute, since last night.

But he doesn't. Suddenly, there's an uncertainty churning in his gut, something unpleasant and sour. He pulls away, straightens a little so that his face is no longer within kissing distance of Steve's. Steve, meanwhile, clearly takes the hint. He leans back against the wall, with a heavy exhale.

"Ready to go home?" he asks after a moment. It would sound rude, or curt, but it doesn't. At the moment, Bucky can't see how they'd continue this casual socializing tonight without it being incredibly uncomfortable. Without voicing any of this tension at all, or clumsily avoiding it.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "It's getting late."

It isn't, not really. It's just past ten, and it's mostly just that Bucky needs to get back to the hotel before ten-thirty.

They finish off their beers and gather up the bottles, putting them in Steve's truck to go recycle them at some point. Then they grab their jackets, switch off the lights, and lock up the house, before heading off down to the road. Sarge has a moment of confusion when they don't get in the truck, but is overjoyed once he realizes it means walking through and alongside the dark woods. He immediately scampers off into the trees, but halts and doubles back when Steve lets out a sharp whistle.

"Stay where I can see you," Steve reprimands, and Sarge heeds the warning, staying close to the road while still maintaining his enthusiasm in sniffing everything he comes across. "He's like a kid, I swear to god."

Steve adds it in a considerably lower voice, and Bucky lets out a laugh.

"A giant kid," he agrees. He glances after the dog, who's a little ahead of them now. Bucky and Steve aren't walking very fast. More like sauntering.

"This is nice, though," Steve says. While the chilly air is enough to sober them both up a bit―Bucky is glad he had the foresight to bring a scarf today―Bucky gets the impression that Steve didn't mean to say that out loud. His slightly uncertain expression says as much. Bucky eases his discomfort a little by nodding.

"Yeah, it is," he agrees, his voice just above a whisper.

The walk to the hotel takes almost twenty minutes, especially with their slow pace, and they barely talk at all for most of the way. Bucky is torn about whether or not he likes that. On the one hand, the silence is stifling, but on the other, he doesn't know what he'd say. What he'd want Steve to say. Do they acknowledge the past twenty-four hours? Do they talk about it? Are they at that level of friendship, and is there even more to discuss?

There is. Bucky is sure of that. He's not quite sure what _it _is, but he's fairly certain it's more than platonic, at this point.

Once they reach the hotel, it's twenty-five minutes past ten, and Bucky notices with some relief that Phil is still at the front desk, talking on the phone. He hasn't seen Bucky yet, out in the dark.

"Where do you live?" Bucky asks Steve, realizing that he actually has no idea. It has just never come up.

"Just ten minutes from here, or so," Steve says dismissively. Sarge is a little tired from their walk and all his forest-sniffing excitement, and has plopped down next to Steve, patiently sitting there and waiting for them to move again.

"Good," Bucky says. "That it's not far, I mean."

_Ask to go with him. Invite him up. _Stupid. That would be a wholly presumptuous and bad idea, especially given his behavior back at the house. Also, how would he even invite him up to his room? Any shred of privacy Bucky and his friendship with Steve may have would vanish in this town, if he did. Also Phil. He'd be way too amused by it. Probably.

And even disregarding all that, Steve might not even want to stay with Bucky at all, tonight. Not now.

God, Bucky's head is a fucking mess.

"Well, goodnight," Steve says. There's a soft smile on his face, patient and maybe a little sad, but not judgmental or upset at all. Somehow, that's even worse.

"Goodnight, Steve."

Bucky makes sure to give Sarge a final head scratch before he and Steve walk away, and he says hello and goodnight to Phil when heading up to his room.

His window faces the main street outside, but Bucky hasn't really thought about until now. Now it only matters because it lets him watch Steve and his dog walk away until they're out of sight.

* * *

Bucky doesn't see nor hear from Steve over the weekend. He doesn't expect to. They haven't really kept in touch any other weekend so far, which makes perfect sense―they may have become friends, but Steve is still hired by Bucky, and does paid work. He works weekdays, mostly on a nine-to-five kind of basis, and weekends are not included in any of that.

Still. Bucky kind of thought―hoped―that maybe this time would be different.

He fills up his time enough to not think about it much. The whole house is now basically ready to live in, with only furniture and decor left to go, so Bucky decides to do as much as he can on his own. This kind of stuff isn't even included in Steve's job description anyway. There's nothing that says he has to help Bucky carry things or stay late or go with him on three round-trips to get a bunch of old furniture. But he still has. He has even asked to _not _be paid for these additional things, since he's doing them on his own. Personally. To help.

Bucky can't believe someone that decent exists. It's disconcerting. But maybe that's just it. Steve is too... good. There has to be a catch, there _has _to. Bucky just hasn't found it yet.

Bucky may be strong and capable, but there's a certain limit to how much you can do on your own. Carrying a bookcase up the stairs seems to be his; even if he can carry the weight, it's just far too cumbersome. But the dining room gets set up nicely, as do the side tables meant for the bedsides, upstairs. Once that's all in place, he starts tending to the scuffs and bruises, determining what needs fixing and what could be passed off as patina.

Wi-Fi comes next. It's easy enough to install, the router and everything else purchased and prepared a couple of weeks ago, and Bucky gets it up and running in a matter of minutes. When he does, he sinks into one of the dining room chairs, with a heavy breath. It's actually comfortable. There's some slight cushioning attached to the dark wood, the dark red of which almost matches the house exterior. The table is the same dark wood as the chairs, and the owner of the store said that while they're not a set, per se, the estate he got them from likely got them all from the same place.

Bucky runs his fingers across the surface of the table, trailing along the barely-visible veins. He looks around. The place looks pretty amazing, it really does. Whatever he couldn't get up the stairs is still sitting in the drawing room, and he thinks about the stuff he's ordered online to have delivered. This whole thing has been quite a costly affair, which he knew it would be from the start. He made sure to register a small business a few weeks into this endeavor, once he knew he was really in it, all-in. It makes a hell of a difference, both in terms of paperwork, money, and―if Bucky's being honest―motivation. Now he just has to hope that it'll pay off, and that he'll actually get some guests who'll at least make it break even.

He texts Sharon a bit, and they agree to talk properly tomorrow. They've kept in touch since Bucky got here, but their friendship doesn't really require them talking all the time. Others have called their friendship shallow, but really, it's just that they know where they have each other. They know they're friends, and that they'll both be there if they need it.

Bucky makes sure to check in with his parents, too, who were less than thrilled about his plans to go off and try to make something of this place. They said he was throwing away his life and his career, taking unnecessary risks―all the usual things. Honestly, Bucky is most proud of doing this despite _their_ protests, in particular. A little juvenile, maybe, but it is what it is.

He very deliberately stays off Instagram, or any other social media. Not that that has been particularly difficult to do, the past few weeks; he's been keeping himself rather distracted, after all. But Bucky's feeling a little on edge, at the moment. Steve isn't here, and for all Bucky knows, Steve's reasons for not being here are less than positive. He shouldn't let his thoughts get carried away, though. It probably doesn't mean anything.

But what if.

Bucky gets up from the table and continues to busy himself with furniture. A lot of other stuff should be arriving in during the next few days, and he needs to get at least some of the work out of the way.

* * *

Steve arrives on Monday morning, just as Bucky is being assisted with carrying a double bed out of a delivery truck. He sees Steve just as he pulls up, and almost drops his end of the bed. He doesn't drop it, though, and the delivery guy does a decent job of hiding his split-second panic at the slight wobble.

"Hi," Steve says, with a small frown, as he approaches the porch. The delivery guy is halfway through the front door, Bucky carrying the other end, and Bucky does his best to look over his shoulder at Steve.

"Morning," he grunts, hitching up the bed a little more. "Just gotta carry this up two flights of stairs, be right back."

He says it a little dryly, and Steve huffs a laugh. Sarge is standing next to him, eyes wide and tail wagging, as he intently watches what's going on. Steve stays him with his hand when he considers following the new exciting object and person into the house, and Sarge lets out a small whine, but sits back down.

"I'll help out with the next one," Steve says, and Bucky doesn't have a chance to protest, before stepping into the foyer.

Bucky is impressed with the stamina of the delivery guy; he's young and on the shorter side, but deceptively strong. Personally, Bucky feels a little jelly-like in his limbs once they put down the bed in one of the double rooms on the second floor, but he doesn't show it. He'd like to think he has a little more dignity than that. Steve is right there and happy to help, though, sparing Bucky the need to admit defeat. He and the delivery guy―named Peter, apparently, who is only a little out of breath and maybe a little sweaty―carry the second bed all the way up to the third floor, where it's placed on the floor of the freshly redone bedroom.

Bucky perhaps spent a little more on that bed, put in a little more effort in terms of quality. If he's going to be sleeping in it, it's got to be good.

Peter sticks around for a few minutes, being lovingly harassed by Sarge as he compliments the house, excited and bright-eyed once he's comfortable. Once he finds out about the house's inn-purpose, he says he'll look into maybe booking a trip with his fiancée sometime. Bucky knows from experience that statements like that tend to be empty words, but this guy seems to actually mean it, which is nice.

Once the delivery truck has driven off, Bucky is hit by the fact that he's alone with Steve. Which has never been a problem before―if anything, he has enjoyed it immensely. But there's still some weird tension there, between them.

"It's really coming together, huh?" Steve says after a minute, and Bucky turns to him.

"What?" he says dumbly.

"The house." Steve gestures behind him with his shoulder, hands still in his jacket pockets. They're standing on the porch, Sarge panting happily as he trots back to them, after bravely chasing off the delivery truck. "It's starting to really look like something, now."

"Oh." Bucky scoffs, quirks a smile. "What, it didn't before?"

"No," Steve says bluntly. "It was a dump. A fucking mess, honestly."

Bucky makes an offended noise, pulling back, eyebrows raised. Steve, the very picture of innocence, shrugs.

"I'm sorry?" Bucky says.

"You heard me."

Bucky narrows his eyes, and Steve's mouth shapes into a crooked smile. And holy shit, Bucky wasn't aware you could miss someone this much after just two days, the way he's missed Steve.

"Asshole," Bucky mutters affectionately, and Steve chuckles. Then he clears his throat, and the air grows a little more serious.

"Hey, uh," Steve starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "You mind if I take tomorrow off?"

Bucky's stomach plummets. Here it is, that hit he's been waiting for. Steve is trying to gently pry himself away from Bucky, and Bucky can't blame him. Still. It hurts a bit. More than he expected.

"No," Bucky says, shaking his head. His voice does not betray how he feels. "Don't worry about it."

"Okay." Steve presses his lips together with a small frown, looks a little apprehensive. A sounds catches in the back of his throat. "It's just―" He puts his hands in his jacket pockets, hunches his shoulders in something like a shrug. "My mom passed away, a few years ago. Tomorrow's the anniversary, and I just― I like to stop by the cemetery, and just take a day to myself."

Bucky suddenly feels like an utter, self-centered asshole.

"Oh," he says. A pause. "I'm sorry." Steve gives him a small, somehow relieved smile. "Yeah, take your time. Of course."

"Thank you, Bucky." The words are soft, sincere, and hearing his name said like that makes a warm veil of cotton wrap around Bucky's heart.

"Don't worry about it," he repeats, his voice low. He feels strange, like Steve just let him in on something big. Maybe he did. Maybe he wouldn't have told Bucky the reason if he didn't consider them... friends.

Suddenly, the hurt Bucky felt mere seconds ago is gone.

"I appreciate that," Steve says. "Really."

Bucky just nods, lips pressed into a crooked, half-awkward smile.

Steve sticks around for most of the day, even though there really isn't any carpenter-stuff left to do. Mostly, he just helps Bucky carry in the various deliveries that arrive throughout the day, piling them on the floor of the drawing room and the foyer.

"Oh my god," Steve says in an exhale, as they put down yet another large box, slightly out of breath. "How much stuff did you get?"

"Not that much," Bucky says, with a half-shrug. "I just... ordered everything at once. Kind of. And asked for express delivery on a lot of it." Steve raises his eyebrows. "Hey, I'd have to get everything, eventually."

Steve cocks his head in admission.

"Fair enough," he says, putting his hands on his hips. His jacket is off now, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and there's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. And down his neck, disappearing underneath the collar of his white t-shirt. Bucky tries not to stare. "A lot of unpacking, though."

"Gives me something to do," Bucky says, with a slight grunt, as he pushes the box up against the wall that makes up the side of the stairs.

"Sure you don't want me to stick around?" Steve asks. "Help out?"

Bucky straightens, gives Steve a flat, pointed look.

"Steve," he says. "Go home. You're not even getting paid to do this."

"So? It's not like I'm skipping out on paid work somewhere else at the moment, don't worry."

He says it with a small chuckle, but Bucky pauses, swallows. Steve clearly doesn't realize what this means to him.

"Still," Bucky says.

"Buck, I―"

"Go home, Rogers." Bucky grabs Steve by the shoulders and shakes him lightly, before turning him around and gently nudging him toward the door. "I'll see you, Wednesday."

It takes a little more coercion, but eventually, Steve loads himself and his dog into his truck and drives off. Not without pausing for a second or two, though, watching Bucky through the windshield. Bucky, already getting cold out on the porch, holds his gaze, and replies with a small wave when Steve's mouth shapes into a small, crooked smile. If Bucky watches the truck until it's both out of sight and out of earshot, he tells himself that doesn't mean anything at all.

* * *

Bucky doesn't do much assembling or decorating for the rest of the day, but he does unpack―or at least takes a peek at―every single box. And there are more of them than he somehow expected, even though he ordered and paid for everything, himself. He decides to leave the actual work for the next day, and heads back to the hotel. The next morning, he's feeling oddly energized and optimistic.

It's a little like that first morning in Pine Rock, he thinks. When he decided to just dive into this project headfirst, excited and exhausted all at once, at the mere thought of it. It was so daunting. But Bucky likes a challenge.

Today, he parks his rental car in its usual spot, and takes a deep, refreshing breath of cold air. October is rapidly approaching, and he honestly feels pretty damn good about being right on track with his plans for this place. There's always something, always some speed bump that derails everything, at least for a little while. But not this time. In all honesty, Bucky isn't sure he would have been able to handle it, if there had been one.

The furniture-assembling comes first. Most of it doesn't require a second pair of hands, and there's not that much of it. Bucky has stuck to thrifting and what Steve would teasingly refer to as antiques, when it comes to almost the entire house, but he wants something different, something more clean and modern, for the third floor. His room, his floor. He supposes that it's basically his, now. He can't see why it wouldn't be.

So he brings up the flat boxes containing two bedside tables, and a desk. Alright, the desk may be a bit of a challenge just getting up there, but he manages. He then spends the next few hours piecing it all together, mumbling to himself about how IKEA instructions really aren't that complicated at all, and that the consensus of them being otherwise is just a huge exaggeration.

His phone is laid out flat on the bedroom floor, playing music, and he's kind of snapped out of his peaceful assembling-trance by it ringing. Vibrating loudly against the recently sandpapered and treated wood. It's Sharon calling, and Bucky swipes to answer, with a small frown.

"Yeah?" he says, putting it on speaker.

"'Yeah'?" Sharon says, mock-offended. "Wow, hello to you, too."

Bucky smiles, even though Sharon can't see him, and goes back to locating one of the nuts needed for his second bedside table. The first one actually turned out pretty great.

"I'm just surprised," he says.

"Surprised by me calling you around noon, on my lunch break?" Sharon asks. "Like we planned, yesterday?"

Bucky pauses, checks the time on his phone. It's already 12:15.

"Lost track of time, I guess," Bucky says, getting back to work. "Sorry."

"What are you doing?" Sharon asks, a small frown in her voice.

"Furniture-ing," Bucky says simply, and Sharon hums, leaves it at that.

"Hey so, uh," Sharon starts after a moment, and Bucky sits up straight.

"What?" he says warily.

"Nothing," Sharon hurries to say―which in itself feels uncharacteristic. "Nothing, it's not a big deal, I just wanna get it out of the way―"

"What?" Bucky repeats, a little more sharply, and Sharon sighs.

"It's Tom," she says evenly. "He's... He started seeing someone."

The cold vacuum in Bucky's stomach honestly takes him by surprise, and he swallows. The nausea is unwelcome and sudden, and he takes a breath.

"Why do I feel like the 'who' is gonna be relevant, here?" he says, sounding a lot more unaffected than he feels. Sharon makes a noise, and Bucky can practically see her looking off to the side, pursing her lips.

"It's the guy," she bites out. "You know―"

"I know his name," Bucky interrupts, closing his eyes. "I don't wanna hear it."

Sharon exhales, but this time, it sounds sympathetic.

"I'm sorry, Bucky," she says, and she means it. "I just didn't want you to find out from someone else. Thought I'd let you know, and you'd to be able to get ahead of it a bit."

Bucky rubs his forehead, and heaves a heavy sigh, eyes still closed.

"Yeah," he says, suddenly very tired. He shuffles a bit, but his tools down and sits back against the wall. "Yeah, I know. Thank you."

Sharon hums, and it's quiet for a few moments.

"You doing okay?" she asks then. "Otherwise?"

Bucky scoffs, with a wry smile. The sudden topic-change is as blatant as it is welcome.

"Yeah, I'm good," Bucky says. He picks at the knee of his jeans. "Really good, actually. I like it here."

"Oh dear," Sharon says, and he can hear her smiling. "We losing you, Barnes?"

Bucky chuckles.

"Not yet," he says. Then he shrugs to himself, revises. "I mean, probably not."

"Not good enough." Sharon lets out the tiniest grunt, as though spinning around in her chair and straightening up. Bucky imagines her sitting in her office, feet up on that fancy ottoman by the window, like she tends to do when no one is watching. Someone must have knocked on the door for her to so quickly switch to professional-mode.

"Hey, at least I'm not moping around an apartment full of bad memories, anymore," Bucky says dryly, although said apartment hasn't been sold or rented or anything of the sort, just yet. As of now, it's just uninhabited, until Bucky can decide what to do with it.

He hears Sharon quietly thank someone, before a door is gently closed.

"That is an improvement," she agrees. A slight creak of her chair, and Bucky knows she's gone right back into lounging position. "And I'm happy for you, you know. Even if this place is a lot less fun without you around."

"Aw," Bucky says. "Miss me, Carter?"

"You wish." Bucky grins. "Seriously, though. I'm glad you're doing well. And that things are actually working out for you."

"We'll see," Bucky says, looking around the room.

"So you just work all the time, or―?" Sharon asks, trailing off.

"What does that mean?" Bucky says, though he knows what it means.

"Do you talk to anyone?" Sharon says. "You know, aside from work-talk with people whose services you need and pay for."

Bucky hesitates, rubs the back of his neck. He doesn't usually keep things from Sharon, even if their friendship isn't super touchy-feely. But this thing with Steve... It feels different. Secret. His own.

"Actually," he says, apprehension in his voice, "I do. Kind of."

Sharon makes an intrigued noise.

"Do tell."

"It's this guy I hired when I first got here," Bucky says, already realizing how this sounds. "An all-round carpenter type. We hit it off, and we've spent pretty much all our time together, since. For work."

"For work," Sharon says suspiciously.

"Yeah," Bucky says. "And we've sort of become... friends."

"There usually isn't such obvious hesitation before the word 'friends'," Sharon says. Bucky leans his head back against the wall.

"Well, it's what we are," he says. "I think. Probably. I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Well, I did, last week," Bucky says, a little flustered, all of a sudden. "But stuff happened, and it got... close. I don't know. I didn't hear from him over the weekend, but I saw him yesterday, and things seemed fine."

Sharon hums thoughtfully.

"What's he like?" she asks after a few moments, and Bucky frowns.

"What?"

"The guy."

Bucky takes a deep breath, looks down at the floor, picking at a seam along his knee, as though hiding his face.

"He's―" he starts. He lets out a sigh. "He's pretty amazing." A pause, and Sharon waits. "In a lot of ways. He doesn't bullshit around, he's reliable, he's funny. Kind. An almost frustratingly good person, from what I can tell."

Sharon breathes a laugh into the receiver, and Bucky can practically see her smiling.

"He does sound pretty great," she says.

"Yeah. He has a three-legged dog, too."

"Shut up."

"A mutt."

Sharon groans. "God. If you don't go for it, I will."

"What about the mysterious Miss Romanoff?" Bucky asks chidingly, referring to the firm's new hire, as of two months ago.

"Well, if she ever gets around to actually asking me out," Sharon says breezily, "I'll deal with it then."

"You know, you could always ask _her_," Bucky points out.

"I could," Sharon admits. "But we're currently in something of a courting-standoff, and I'm pretty sure neither of us likes to lose."

"Sounds like a recipe for success."

"Patience, my friend. It's all about patience."

"Patience is not my thing," Bucky says in an exhale, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Clearly. Although, you have apparently been dragging out this thing with that guy for well over a month, so―" A shrug is implied, and Bucky frowns.

"I haven't been dragging anything out," he says, almost petulantly. "It's just... slow. Or non-existent. I don't know."

"You're an idiot," Sharon says fondly.

"Yeah, probably." Bucky heaves a deep sigh. "Enough about me, though. How're things on your end?"

Sharon proceeds to update him on the business-side of things, cases that Bucky likes to keep up to date on, even though he quit the firm. She also catches him up on office gossip, even though they both insist they don't care for it much. They keep talking through Sharon's entire lunch break, through Bucky assembling his bedside tables and then cleaning up the debris, and Sharon making sure to actually eat something on her lunch break. By the time they hang up, Bucky feels better than he did before.

Until he remembers what Sharon told him, when he first picked up.

Tom is seeing someone now. Someone whose face―and body―Bucky has involuntarily had burned into his memory. The image of Tom wrapped up with said body on the couch briefly flashes before Bucky's eyes, and he presses the heels of his palms into them, as though that will somehow chase it away. It does, but he knows it's not for long. And he doesn't want to think about any of this, isn't even sure how he feels about it, if it even bothers him or not.

So he resolves to stay particularly busy, in order to avoid thinking about it, at all.

Later in the day, Bucky heads back out to the antiques-place. The used-furniture place. Whichever description suits it best. He spotted a kitchen table last time he was there, but reasoned that he could probably find something similar, but new, or at least more so. He hasn't. Or rather, he has, but it's a tad pricey for where his budget is at, right now. So thrifting it is.

Lucky for him, the table is still there, tucked away into a corner. The deal is swift and satisfactory, and the guy who owns the place even offers to drive the table to the house himself, since Bucky's rental isn't exactly equipped for it. Bucky protests, but the guy insists, and soon enough, the kitchen table is sitting right at home in Bucky's very own kitchen. The chairs he got from a second-hand place online definitely don't match the table, but it works ― mismatched in a deliberate kind of way. The first thing Bucky does is sit down, tapping the table with his fingers and looking around the surprisingly spacious kitchen, as though to get a feel for how it fits.

It's only five minutes of stillness later that his mind is intruded with thoughts of Tom and whatshisface, and Bucky gets back up with an frustrated huff, heading out into the drawing room. There's still a lot of stuff left to do.

By the time twilight rolls around, Bucky has moved and adjusted the large couch in the drawing room six times. Every time he hears a leg rub against the hardwood floor with a groaning complaint, he winces, but the floor remains unharmed. Upstairs, he manages to assemble the entire desk for the office, and pushes it into place exactly where he's previously measured it to fit. He smiles, satisfied with his work, and assembles everything else he has left. It's not much now, but at least he gets it done.

By the time it's properly dark outside, Bucky doesn't have much left to do, and his whole body aches. It's a good kind of ache, though. He plops down onto the couch in the drawing room, gazing out into the foyer, the corner-fireplace to the left of the large opening. He hasn't had it checked, yet. He really needs to get on that―no autumn-winter night is complete without an open fire, especially not in an old Victorian house in the middle of nowhere.

Bucky won't realize it until later, but he hasn't thought about Tom in over three hours, now.

Bucky did go shopping recently. Mostly, it was meant as a way to stock up on some snacks and whatnot, since bringing sandwiches or eating out gets both repetitive and expensive, in the long run. That said, he doesn't really have any real food to speak of. He went a little crazy and bought some eggs and bread and other perishables, the other day, and those are safely tucked in the―now modern and fully functional―refrigerator.

Still, Bucky is up for something more comforting, tonight. He grabs a box of mac n' cheese stashed in a kitchen cupboard, along with one of the two bowls he's got so far, as well as a small pot.

It's his first time cooking in this house, he realizes. The kitchen has been fully functional and ready to go for weeks, but he hasn't really ended up in a scenario where he'd have to use it, yet. Especially not with Steve around. When he's around, Bucky is either too distracted by him to really pay attention to how hungry he might be, or Steve makes sure they go get something to eat. Tonight, nothing is keeping Bucky distracted from his rumbling stomach―he only had a protein bar for lunch, and only then because he was so hungry he couldn't ignore it―and it's not like he has anything better to do.

He's glad he got the Wi-Fi working smoothly. As he sits by his brand new-old kitchen table, on one of the four slightly newer chairs, his phone is laid flat on the wooden surface. Bucky is absently watching a few videos, spooning up his meager but delicious excuse for a dinner, and relishing the taste of powdered cheese and artificial dye.

He misses Steve. It's fucking stupid, but he misses Steve.

Maybe Bucky has known, in the back of his mind, that he'd end up inadvertently spending the night here, eventually. He's been planning to do it on purpose, of course, but the hotel has been his "home" for so long now that it feels odd to suddenly have another one. A proper one, one that's his own, one he doesn't have to pay for in the same way and only get a room with a bathroom in return. Although, Phil has been very accommodating; when Bucky asked to keep his room for another month or so, he was offered a sort of custom-made monthly plan, instead. At this point, he's renting his room like he has a landlord, rather than a concierge.

But staying here tonight, it feels right. It's past eleven p.m. when Bucky takes a stroll around the house, looking over all he's done today and patting himself on the back a little. He smiles to himself, tired and pleased, as he flicks off the lights, double-checks the front door, and heads upstairs to the third floor. His very own floor. His very own kitchen-less apartment, for lack of a better term. Speaking of, he should really put in a kitchenette, or something. Once he starts actually housing guests, it would be nice not to have to traverse down to the common-area first floor whenever he has a craving or wants a solitary meal.

The house feels different with the lights off, with Bucky inside. At first, he'll admit it unsettles him a little, but when he dims down the lighting on the third floor―Tony stopped by to install dimmers all around the house, the other week―it feels like... home. Almost. Kind of. _His _home, in a way he hasn't felt it in many years.

The bathroom is welcoming and clean, the towels brand new and fluffy after Bucky's first shower, and the sheets are crisp and fresh as Bucky makes his bed for the first time. When he crawls underneath the covers, the light of the waxing moon filtering in through the windows, it's like being wrapped up in a soft, warm cocoon. There is no draft, nowhere in the house, and Bucky only absently notes the slight smell of paint still lingering in the room from the touch-ups he did the other day. It only serves to remind him that he did this. He made this.

Bucky flicks off the temporary, rather ugly lamp on his bedside table, casting the room into darkness, softly illuminated by the natural light from outside. He made this place, he thinks, as he closes his eyes and starts drifting off in a matter of seconds. He made this. He and Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the conclusion. And come find me on [the twitters](http://twitter.com/lemonoclefox) if you want. I'm a delight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached the end, and I hope you've enjoyed reading this story half as much as I've enjoyed writing it (spoiler: I've really enjoyed writing it). What started as a lame, vague idea somehow turned into this, and no one is more surprised than me. Also thank you for all the wonderful feedback! It nourishes my soul and puts a big dumb smile on my face, which is always great.
> 
> You can find me on [the twitters](http://twitter.com/lemonoclefox), and you can find my multi-chap WIP [over here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839784/chapters/42095321) if you're so inclined.
> 
> Enjoy!

The first thing Bucky realizes the next morning is that he hasn't put up any curtains, yet. The sun shines directly on his face, just starting to peek around the corner of his south-east-facing bedroom windows. He groans, rolls over in bed to check his phone for the time; almost seven a.m.. Not too bad, then. His alarm is set to go off in just a few minutes. Still a little sleepy, Bucky shuts the alarm off and snuggles back under the covers, shielding his eyes from the sun, best he can.

He wakes up again forty-five minutes later, of his own accord. It takes him a second to really get his bearings and remember where he is, and when he does, a small smile spreads on his face. He inhales deeply, lets it out in a contented breath, and gets out of bed.

Getting ready for the day feels oddly domestic, as though Bucky does this all the time, in this place. He takes his time, lets his phone play some music while he brushes his teeth and gets dressed―in the same clothes he wore yesterday. He wasn't prepared to have an unplanned sleepover to the point that he'd keep a stash of clothes here. He should remedy that. Sure, he doesn't even own a wardrobe or a dresser yet, but that can be arranged.

It's fine, though. His clothes were clean when he put them on yesterday, and despite that he sweat a bit during the day, he's found that people―as well as he, himself―just don't really care much about that stuff here. It's surprisingly freeing.

It's when Bucky is slowly sauntering downstairs twenty minutes later, that he hears the crunch of wheels on gravel, from outside. He freezes, and it takes him a full five seconds to remember that Steve was coming today. Of course, he is. He only took yesterday off.

Still, Bucky feels strangely nervous as he brushes off his jeans and walks through the foyer. He tugs on his black, zipped-up hoodie a little, as though that's gonna positively change his appearance in the slightest, even though he pretty much just rolled out of bed.

Steve is just about to scale the steps up to the porch, when Bucky unlocks and opens the door. Steve stops dead, blinks.

"Morning," Bucky says, and he doesn't really realize how tired he must look and sound until he sees Steve's frown.

"Good morning," Steve says. He eyes Bucky up and down, hands in his jacket pockets. Then he glances up at the house, and back at Bucky. He tilts his head. "Did you sleep here?"

Bucky emits a disgruntled chuckle, a small smile on his face.

"That obvious?" he says, trying to ignore the little flutter in his stomach, and it takes Steve a second.

"Oh," he says, with an awkward laugh. "No, not in a bad way, just―" He clears his throat. "You've got a... morning look about you, I guess. As in, woke up twenty minutes ago, morning look."

_Dead-on._

Bucky hums, nodding. He leans against the doorway. Steve is still standing below the steps, on the ground.

"In a good way, then?" Bucky asks, folding his arms. He's glad he threw on his hoodie; the house may be nice and warm, but the outside air is decidedly not.

Pink touches Steve's cheeks, Bucky can see it from here. Steve's beard covers some of it, and maybe it could be chalked up to the chilly air, but Bucky is somehow almost certain that has nothing to do with it.

"Yeah," Steve says. He starts making his way up the steps then, eyes on Bucky. Sarge quickly follows, approaching Bucky and sniffing him, tail wagging. Bucky distractedly scratches behind his ear as Steve moves closer, coming to a halt right just inches away. "It's a good look on you."

Bucky swallows, is entirely sure Steve notices. He feels very exposed, all of a sudden, and his hand goes up to the top of his head, where he pointlessly attempts to smooth down the unstyled, flyaway hairs.

"Thanks," he mutters, and he swears that Steve's crooked smile goes from careful to amused. Almost satisfied. Bucky clears his throat, turns around. "Come on. You're letting the cold in."

Steve just grins, as he follows Bucky inside. He closes the front door behind them, then pauses.

"Whoa," he says in a low voice, looking around the foyer. He turns to the drawing room, lips slightly parted. "You did _a lot _in thirty-six hours."

Bucky lingers by the stairs in the foyer, hands in the front pockets of his hoodie.

"Uh," he says. "I just― I mean, I had most of the stuff. And I had the time, so. Most of what I've done is upstairs."

Steve turns to him.

"Getting the rooms ready?" he asks.

"Mostly mine," Bucky says. "I mean, the third floor. Hence, me sleeping here. Just got done really late, and there was a bed, and I had sheets, so―" He shrugs.

Steve nods slowly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Yours," he says. "I like the sound of that."

Bucky doesn't have to ask what he means. Steve has intermittently asked since he arrived, after all, if he plans on staying. This must be Steve finally hearing a _yes_, without even really asking.

"Yeah." Bucky shifts his weight a little. Steve's gaze is so soft that he can barely look at it. "Uh, there's a kitchen table now." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Even had dinner there, last night."

"Really?" Steve says.

"Really." Bucky cocks his head. "I mean, dinner consisted of mac n' cheese, but still."

"Can't go wrong with that," Steve agrees with a chuckle. "Can I see?"

Bucky frowns. "The mac n' cheese―?"

"The table," Steve says patiently, smiling. Bucky scoffs, looking away a little self-consciously. Leave it to Steve to turn him into a fumbling idiot with little to no effort.

"Right," he says. "Sure."

He cocks his head in the direction of the kitchen, and Steve follows him to it. Sarge is busy sniffing and exploring everything that's been added in his absence, and barely notices them leave.

"So, um," Bucky starts, pushing the door open to the kitchen. "How was―? I mean, how was your day? Yesterday."

_Smooth._

"It was good," Steve says, softly, but a little sad. "She's buried next to dad. I never knew him, he died when I was less than a year old, but still. She used to talk about him all the time."

Bucky nods.

"Can I ask how she―?" he says, and Steve spares him the awkwardness of asking the whole question.

"Aneurysm," he says simply. "Dad had a car accident."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, his voice quiet. Steve shakes his head.

"It's okay," he says, and he clearly means it. "It's been a long time." He pauses, seems to consider his next words carefully. "She would've liked you."

Bucky stiffens, taken aback by how much that statement affects him. They're in the kitchen now, but neither of them seems particularly interested in checking out the table.

"I―" Bucky says after a moment, unsure what to say.

"She would've," Steve reassures him, with a small smile. He doesn't seem to expect Bucky to have a good response, or any at all. "She liked people who were blunt, honest. And she liked when they had drive. Some kind of commitment. She liked kind people, too. That was important to her." He shrugs, hands in the pockets of the warm leather jacket he still hasn't taken off. He's even wearing a scarf today, knitted and red, wrapped around his neck. "So yeah. She would've liked you."

Bucky swallows hard, considers that for a few moments. He looks down at the floor, nods.

"Thank you," he says, for lack of anything else. "I'm sure I would've liked her, too."

Steve doesn't reply, just holds Bucky's gaze when he looks up. And just like the other night, on that lit-up street, everything around them just disappears for a second or two.

"So, uh," Steve says after a few moments, breaking the spell. "You were busy, yesterday."

Bucky lets out something like a grunt of admission.

"I was," he says. He turns away, taps the kitchen table with his fingers. "I actually went back to that place where we got the dining room table, and the bookcases."

"The antiques place?" Steve says cheekily, and Bucky rolls his eyes, smiling.

"Yes," he says. "That place. There was some stuff that caught my eye last time, and I wanted to see if they still had this." He knocks on the worn wood. "They did. And the guy kindly drove it here after he closed up."

"You could've borrowed my truck," Steve suggests.

"Yeah, I know," Bucky says evasively. "Didn't want to bother you on your day off."

He tries to say it sympathetically, seeing as how the statement itself can sound kind of passive-aggressive. He's pretty sure he succeeds, but Steve still looks hurt, somehow.

"You're never bothering me, Buck," he says quietly, as though he didn't quite mean to say it out loud. Bucky's heart squeezes in his chest. He swallows dryly.

"Thanks," he says. It's just above a whisper, as though it's suddenly hard to get any words out at all. "But yeah, it was your day, and―" He shrugs, voice back to normal. "It wasn't exactly urgent. I would've asked today, if that guy hadn't insisted. He was very helpful."

"Small-town thing?" Steve says, with a small shrug, the hurt gone from his expression.

"Yeah." Bucky scoffs. "Or a 'this guy already spent a lot of money at my store, so I'd better make a good impression' thing."

"Maybe both."

"Maybe." Bucky can't help but smile, and it's mirrored by Steve. "So, yeah. A lot of stuff I'd ordered came in Monday, and yesterday. And you weren't here, so I didn't exactly have anything better to do."

He's ready to take it back the moment the words leave his lips, both due to how honest it is and due to the risk of sounding disrespectful. Steve, however, just grins, with a surprised laugh. His cheeks are tinged a little pink again, and this time it's definitely not from the autumn chill.

"Wow," he says. "Way to put the blame on me."

"That's not―" Bucky tries, with a somewhat awkward laugh.

"No, no, I get it." Steve shrugs, eyebrows raised. "You missed me."

_Damn right, I did._

"I did not," Bucky says plainly.

"You missed me," Steve repeats.

"I missed― Sarge," Bucky attempts, gesturing in the direction of the drawing room. "He's very entertaining."

"Uh-huh." Steve nudges Bucky with his elbow, hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Keep telling yourself that."

"I will," Bucky says, folding his arms. "'Cause it's true."

Steve just laughs, giving Bucky that bright, crooked smile that's impossibly contagious. Then he clears his throat slightly, glancing at the floor.

"I missed you, too," he says, very quietly. Bucky's heart skips, and he hates that one's heart skipping a beat is an actual thing, and not just an overused, stupid expression. Steve could just be teasing, for all he knows. That seems the most likely. But there's something about his tone, the way he says it. As though said in a way that could be interpreted as serious, or played off as joking, depending on Bucky's reaction. Just to be safe.

Bucky bravely chooses the first interpretation. He chooses not to acknowledge Steve's admission out loud, though. Instead, he moves on.

"Anyway," he says, straightening. "I got a lot of shit done. And, I don't know, it was just... a day. Needed the distraction. Not just from missing you," he adds cheekily, and Steve narrows his eyes with a small smile.

"Yeah?" he says. "Then from what?"

Bucky considers not telling him. Then he decides that he wants to. He really wants to. He wants Steve to know his current state of mind. His realization, which really only settled on him once he woke up, this morning. The one that has left him feeling lighter, as though having processed, overnight.

"I, uh," he starts, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He chews his lip. "I talked to a friend. Back in New York. She mentioned that my, uh― My ex. He was seeing someone new. More specifically, the guy he cheated on me with."

Steve's expression lands somewhere between shocked, angry, and disappointed.

"Shit, Bucky," he says.

"She just wanted me to know," Bucky hastily explains. "She didn't want me to hear it from someone else, or something. And I appreciate that, I do."

"Still." Steve frowns, lips pressed together. "You okay?"

Bucky nods slowly.

"Yeah," he says thoughtfully. "Yeah, that's the thing. I'm fine." Steve watches him steadily. "No, really. I'm fine. I didn't think I was, at first. I mean, I hadn't even thought about him in weeks, so it just kind of hit me all at once. But then, after a few hours of this―" He gestures around them― "I was fine. Actually fine. Like... nothing else really mattered. You know?"

Something changes in Steve's expression then. He blinks, and the frown smoothes out, slowly being replaced by something bright and soft. Something fond, and open. Bucky suddenly feels very vulnerable, just seeing it. Like it's too intimate.

"I know," Steve says. His voice matches his expression, and Bucky has to rein in a soft and what would have been a highly embarrassing gasp. What is wrong with him? "I really do."

Just like that, everything shifts. Any tension that may have been lingering between them is gone, and the air is instead quickly saturated with something light and exciting, something buzzing and impatient . Bucky doesn't like it. He also really, really likes it.

"Uh," he blurts, abruptly straightening from his leaning slouch. He suddenly feels the need to keep his hands busy, to move around. Anything but just standing still. "You should check out this― This shelf I got. Let me know what you think."

With that, he practically rushes out of the kitchen, desperate to get away from the thick, pleasant tension prickling through the air. Steve lets out a surprised huff, but follows. Once he joins Bucky in the drawing room―and Sarge, who has found a spot on the new cushioned bench by the bay window―he has taken off his jacket and scarf. They're thrown over his arm, but he carefully places them on the wrought iron coat hanger standing by the door, once he remembers that it's there.

Bucky has to just stare for a moment―Steve is wearing a sweater. Not a plaid button-up over a t-shirt, or a hoodie, a _sweater. _And it's cable-knitted, and forest green, and looks so soft, and makes Steve look so _wholesome _and autumn-y_, _and Bucky wants nothing more than to run his fingers over it. To feel the texture, to feel the hard muscle beneath, to burrow against Steve's neck and pull his fingers through his hair―

"Looks good," Steve says, gesturing at the still empty, underwhelming shelf Bucky nailed to the wall yesterday afternoon, and bringing Bucky's train of thought to a screeching halt. Bucky forces himself to stop staring. God, he knew he had it bad for Steve, but this is insane. How did it suddenly go from an admittedly strong crush with a side of dread, to this? Suddenly, Steve feels... _attainable. _Like Bucky has let himself see him this way now, and not just in a hypothetical sense.

As though he could actually have him. If he tried.

"Thanks," he says, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He suddenly somehow wishes he'd worn his nicer jeans. Aside from a toothbrush and some mac n' cheese, he wasn't really prepared with a just-in-case change of clothes. "I think it turned out okay." He chews his lip, turns to Steve. "Wanna see the third floor?"

"Yeah." Steve nods, eyebrows raised, as though he's genuinely excited. He probably is, the dork. His joy about this house's interior hasn't dimmed since the first time he set foot in it.

Bucky just goes for the stairs and jerks his head for Steve to follow.

"Still need to repaint that accent wall in there," he says, as they reach the second floor, pointing at the single-bedroom in question. "And there's some stuff I noticed in one of the double-rooms that needs fixing. But it's just a crack or two, nothing a little filler can't fix."

"Look at you," Steve says, in an amused, teasing tone. "Using the lingo."

"Ha-ha," Bucky deadpans. He throws a glance at Steve over his shoulder―and is probably just imagining the way Steve's gaze quickly whips up to his face from somewhere further down. "What can I say? You've taught me well."

"Well, I'm glad to hear your takeaway from our time together is now knowing how filler works."

"Asshole," Bucky exhales, turning back ahead to climb the stairs to the third floor. He hears Steve chuckle behind him.

It's not until they reach the third floor that Bucky gets a weird, distantly familiar feeling in his gut. It takes him a second, but he soon realizes what it is; the feeling of bringing your crush home for the first time, to see your room. It's stupid―Bucky is a grown, actual adult man, and is not the fluttery, nervous type. But something about Steve, and something about bringing Steve up to see what is now essentially his home, mostly set up and livable, for the very first time... It feels special, somehow. What a nonsensical, embarrassing feeling.

"Well," Bucky says a little awkwardly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and kind of slowly spinning on the spot as Steve reaches the top of the stairs. "This is me."

The stairs come up into the middle of what could now truly be described as a small flat, the bedroom still to the left, the bathroom and home office to the right. Steve's eyes widen a little, taking it all in. The door to the bedroom is wide open, letting sunshine fall on the floor by the stairs, accompanied by the cold morning air slipping in through the window Bucky cracked open earlier. Steve slowly walks over to the bedroom, notices the unmade sheets, and gives Bucky a small eyebrow-raise. Bucky shrugs.

"I've earned the right not to make my bed today," he says, and Steve quirks a crooked smile, turning back to the bedroom.

"It looks really good," he says honestly. "Could do with some stuff on the walls, though."

He says it almost cheekily, fully aware of how it comes off. Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Those walls, and pretty much every other wall in the house. Art hasn't exactly been my top priority."

Steve gasps, scandalized.

"How dare you," he says. Bucky just raises his eyebrows, and Steve shakes his head with a mock-disappointed look. "And here I thought you'd learned something."

He starts making his way over to the other two rooms, and Bucky nudges him lightly as he passes by, making Steve smile. _God, _Bucky could stare at that smile forever an never get tired of it. Not just that smile―every smile. Because Steve has many, with tiny nuances and moods, and Bucky loves each one he has seen, so far. Even more so when he's the cause of them.

Steve sticks his head into the bathroom, hums approvingly as he feels the soft towels, then lets out a low whistle when he pushes open the door to the office.

"Like it?" Bucky says, nearly tripping over himself to get there. He can't explain why, but this room is special, somehow. It's a room he made into something entirely different, just for himself, and he's very pleased with how it's turned out.

The desk he managed to assemble last night has been placed in front of the window, with enough space behind it for a chair, so that the person sitting there would be facing the door. A low bookcase has been placed below the slanted ceiling, along the wall. So far, that's all there is, but it's turned this small, pointless room into something really good, something spacious and useful.

"It's nice," Steve says, the words simple, but genuine. Bucky grins.

"Right?" he says, a little more excitedly than intended. He makes his way into the small room, gesturing this way and that. "I was thinking of having a view by the desk, but honestly I cannot stand having my back to the door. I need to get a comfy chair and stuff, though, but― Oh, best part?" He practically skips over to Steve and turns a knob by the door. The hanging ceiling lamp brightens to life, dimming back down when Bucky turns the knob the other way. He grins at Steve. "I mean, maybe not the _best _part, but pretty close."

Steve is just nodding, standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. He's got a kind of absent look on his face, having followed Bucky around the room with his eyes and now zeroing in on him completely. Something has shifted, and Bucky can't put his finger on what.

"What?" Bucky says. Steve shakes his head.

"Nothing," he says, with a small, soft smile. "It's― I like seeing you excited."

Bucky would have sworn he's blushing, except Bucky Barnes doesn't blush. Ever.

"Lots to be excited about," he manages to retort dryly, and Steve huffs a laugh.

"That, there is." He just holds Bucky's gaze then, for several, long seconds. Bucky does his best not to swallow, to betray the very real nervousness suddenly blooming back to life in his chest.

Steve is here, in his space. His own space, his personal space that he's carved out for himself. And he looks... happy. As though being with Bucky like this, seeing him like this, is all he could ever want.

"It's nice," Steve repeats after a while, and Bucky presses his lips together in a half-smile, eyes narrowed.

"Thank you," he says, still somehow keeping his cool. "You don't sound too enthusiastic about it, though."

"No, I am," Steve hurries to say, nodding. "I am. It's nice, it really is." An exhale, a small smile. "You did good."

Bucky scoffs.

"Didn't do it alone," he points out, nudges Steve gently with his elbow. Somehow, the casual touch leaves his skin buzzing. "_We_ did good."

Steve just watches him steadily.

"Still," Steve says, his voice a little lower. The buzz evolves into a shiver, which runs up along Bucky's back, his neck, making his hair stand on end. The air feels charged. He feels a little too warm. The room feels too small.

"Still," he parrots back. That's all he says. He can't seem to find any other words to say, transfixed by Steve's blue eyes boring into his. He inhales, holds his breath. Those blue eyes flick to his mouth.

The kiss shouldn't be unexpected, but it is. The moment Steve leans in and crashes their lips together, Bucky actually staggers backward from the sheer force of it. Then he steadies, immediately catching up to Steve's intensity, putting a hand behind his neck and pulling him in. A surprised groan, and Steve follows, inadvertently pushing Bucky back against the nearest wall and pressing up against him, parting his lips with his tongue and making his head spin, the kiss instantly deep and hungry and impatient.

They lose themselves in it for a few moments, before they suddenly stop, as though to get their bearings. Steve pulls away by just a fraction, just far enough to catch Bucky's gaze. He swallows, seems to be searching for words, lips parted in half-hearted attempts to say them out loud, his chest heaving. He decides against it, instead surging back to Bucky's welcoming mouth with a helpless groan.

Bucky's hands go to Steve's waist, slide down over his hips, run up along his back. The fabric of his sweater _is_ soft and pleasant, but it's currently just very much in the way. Bucky needs Steve's skin, and he needs it now, so he somewhat clumsily tugs on the bottom hem of the sweater, trying to make his intentions known. Steve, thankfully, gets it rather quickly, pulling the garment over his head, though leaving the white t-shirt beneath it on. He throws the sweater to land on the floor somewhere, and his hair is left sticking out in all directions. It's adorable. And hot. So hot.

Bucky isn't quite sure what happened. He's not sure how they went from talking to _this, _in the span of ten seconds. But _god _he wants it, it's all he can think about. Steve Steve _Steve_, all of him, the hard lines of that warm body fitting so perfectly against Bucky's own, the scent of him everywhere and _so_ addictive. The taste of him on Bucky's tongue, the soft scratch of his beard, the sounds he makes low in his throat, his calloused hands on Bucky's waist, fingers digging into his hair. The hard bulge in his jeans, pressing against Bucky, who responds in kind.

But while the idea of just staying here forever, wrapped up in a haze of desire and want, is incredibly enticing, it just won't do―Bucky is about to burst out of his skin, and it's just not enough. So he pushes away from the wall, giving Steve a deep, hard kiss, before pulling away. He backs over the threshold, eyes locked with Steve, who just watches him go with a dazed, hungry look on his face. Bucky turns and heads toward his brand new bedroom, unzipping and taking off his hoodie along the way, and Steve follows―it doesn't take him more than a second to decide to do so.

Once in the room―hoodie on the floor and his dark gray t-shirt somehow not too cold―Bucky hooks his fingers through the belt loops of Steve's jeans. He tugs him closer, earning a small grunt of surprise, before those wonderful hands are on him again. The room smells of fresh wood and clean sheets, still vaguely of paint, of crisp morning air. Steve overpowers all of it.

They find this pause in their frantic kissing for a moment, panting, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. Bucky brushes their lips together, pulling a low, almost _yearning _moan from Steve's throat. There's room to say something, but again, neither of them does. The hands on Bucky tighten their grip, and Bucky crashes his lips into Steve's once more.

The firm mattress dips beneath their combined weight, as they tumble onto the bed. The unmade sheets are soft and coarse against their skin, as their clothes are hurriedly taken off and discarded. It's not until they're down to their underwear that either of them finally speaks.

"Do you have―?" Steve asks as he hovers over him, and Bucky hums.

"Shockingly, I do," he says. It's by habit, he wants to say, more than anything. Always good to be prepared, keeping condoms and a sachet of lube in your wallet. After the big breakup, it just seemed particularly appropriate somehow.

Steve's eyebrows rise.

"Shockingly?" he says, out of breath. "What, you weren't planning on hooking up with the locals?"

Bucky snorts, and Steve is pleased.

"Not exactly," Bucky says. He pulls Steve into a kiss, deep and slow, fingers in blond hair that's getting just a little too long. "But I'm glad I was wrong about that."

Steve grins, rolling off Bucky when prompted, so that Bucky can get what they need. When he returns, Steve has stripped down to nothing, lying on his back, and Bucky just stops by the bed to let out a sigh, eyes raking over him.

"What?" Steve says. Bucky shakes his head.

"Damn it," he says. Steve watches as Bucky gets naked as well, momentarily distracted by the sight of him in all his glory, before getting back to his apparent concern.

"What?" he repeats, and Bucky tosses the lube and condom onto the bed beside him. He then climbs on top of Steve, straddling his lap, and the gasp it draws from Steve is just lovely. And _god, _the feeling of hot skin on skin is breathtaking.

"Just can't stop, can you?" Bucky says, leaning down for a kiss, hands on Steve's chest. That amazing chest.

"Stop what?" Steve breathes.

"Being perfect," Bucky says, and Steve blinks, before huffing a laugh.

"Are you complimenting my dick?" he asks flatly, and Bucky hums.

"Maybe," he says. His mouth shapes into a grin, just as Steve grabs him and rolls them both over, switching their positions. Steve grinds down against him, and a moan gets caught in Bucky's throat, his eyes closing. Steve presses a kiss against his neck, then another, dragging blunt nails down along his side.

"All for you, baby," he says, and Bucky snorts.

"Oh my god, shut up."

"What, no talking?" Steve laughs.

"As long as talking doesn't involve _that_, I'm good."

"Fair," Steve says, pleased with Bucky's reaction to his teasing, and presses another kiss to his jaw. His next one is slower, open-mouthed, nipping at Bucky's neck before smoothing over the spot with his tongue. A low, shaky moan is drawn from Bucky, his hands tightening their grip on Steve's waist, trailing up along his back to press against his shoulder blades.

"This fucking back," he murmurs without thinking.

"What was that?" Steve murmurs in response, against Bucky's neck. Bucky hums.

"Your back," he says, figures that there's no point in trying to play it cool. "I've been staring at it for weeks." He digs his fingertips into the muscle, prompting a grunt from Steve. "And it feels _really _good."

"You've been staring at me, huh?" Steve says, pulling back a little bit, just enough for them to lock eyes. He sounds almost smug.

"You know I have," Bucky says flatly.

"Still nice to hear you say it," Steve says, that somewhat smug smile in place. Bucky groans, pulls him into a kiss. It's enough to shut him up, for now.

"These were brand new sheets," Bucky says an indeterminate amount of time later, in a low, heavy exhale. It seems to take Steve by surprise, but he soon recovers, huffing a laugh.

"Not anymore," he says, just as out of breath. He angles his head toward Bucky. "Sorry about that."

Bucky groans, meets Steve's gaze. He could swear to god, the guy is _glowing._ Like, actually. The sun is shining on him, and everything. Bucky wants to touch him, so he does, lazily rolling onto his side and reaching out with his hand to pull his fingers through that soft, blond hair. Steve closes his eyes for a moment, melts into the mattress.

"I think I can let it slide," Bucky says, retrieving his hand, prompting Steve to open his eyes again. "You've made up for it."

Steve snorts, and it makes Bucky smile. They just stare at each other for a little while, and Bucky is embarrassingly _not _bothered by how cheesy it is. He hasn't felt this way in a long, long time, and he wants to savor it until it crashes and burns. If. _If_ it crashes and burns. Steve has somehow, inadvertently, managed to convince him that maybe the worst _won't _inevitably happen, in any given situation.

"You hungry?" Steve asks after a little while, his voice low. They've both settled back down now, no longer panting and dazed, the hazy afterglow slowly starting to lift from their orgasm-addled brains. That previously pleasant chill from the window is becoming uncomfortably cold on Bucky's bare skin, though. He's torn between getting up, and just crawling deeper under the covers and staying there, keeping warm from Steve's body heat. Maybe even go for another round, or two. God knows, they don't have any other pressing plans for the day.

"Well, I haven't had breakfast, yet," Bucky says. "Why, you making something?"

Steve smiles. There isn't the slightest hint of any awkwardness between them, and Bucky is honestly shocked by how effortless and uncomplicated this whole development feels. It makes him positively giddy.

"Maybe," Steve says. "It can be arranged."

Bucky's mouth curls into a slow smile, and he shifts a little closer to Steve. He presses a light kiss to his lips, inhales deeply.

"Then I could eat," he says. "But first, shower."

Bucky is honestly surprised that they make it through the shower without ending up all over each other. If they'd been in there longer, they probably would have. Instead, they wash up quickly and head down into the kitchen, where Steve immediately starts digging through the large, but still sparsely stocked fridge.

"You know," he says, while Bucky just leans back against the counter and watches him move around the room. For once, he can watch him freely, with unabashed interest and appreciation, with a small smile on his face. "Lot of house firsts, today."

"Yeah?" Bucky asks, humoring him. "How so?"

"First sleepover," Steve says, gesturing up at the third floor. "First shared shower, first cooked meal."

"I ate in here, last night," Bucky points out.

"True," Steve says, gesturing at him with his hands, currently filled with eggs, one red bell pepper, and butter. Bucky doesn't really know what he was thinking, when he went grocery shopping. "But you haven't cooked in here, before. I mean, properly."

"Good point."

"Also," Steve says, putting his stuff down on the counter and making his way to Bucky. He puts himself in front of him, places one hand on either side of his body, on the counter, trapping Bucky where he stands. "First hook-up. I'm guessing?"

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

"You're not the only hot single in town, Steve," he says, as though trying to let him down easy. Before Steve has the slightest chance to even consider taking him seriously, though, Bucky continues. "But you are the only one I'd want. So yes." He kisses Steve lightly on the lips, which have curved into an amused smile. "First hook-up."

Steve's smile turns almost bashful then, which is definitely an interesting look on him. He brings a hand up to run his thumb along Bucky's jaw, where some week-old stubble rasps lightly against his skin. He swallows.

"Not the last, I hope," he says, meeting Bucky's gaze, clearly referring to hooking up with _him_, rather than in general. Bucky smiles softly.

"I wasn't planning on it," he says quietly. "Though, I guess if it were to happen again... Maybe I wouldn't call it a hook-up."

"Then what would you call it?" Steve asks, his voice lowered to match Bucky's. Bucky takes a breath.

"I don't know," he says, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. He grabs the front of Steve's t-shirt, tugs on it lamely. "Sex?" He huffs a laugh, mirrored by Steve. "Personal, regular-basis, monogamous sex? With feelings?"

"With feelings, huh?" Steve asks, with an amused, crooked smile.

"Yes, with feelings."

Steve just watches him for a few moments, slides his hand to the back of his neck, his thumb now tracing the back of Bucky's jaw. It's very soft, and makes Bucky weak in the knees.

"I really like you, Bucky." He says is quietly, yet the declaration somehow echoes in the space between them. Bucky takes a deep, deep breath, trying to clear his head. Just a little. Steve looks determined, sincere, and Bucky wants him _so _much, in every conceivable way.

"I really like you, too," he says, just as quietly, before he can talk himself out of it. He feels like a teenager, saying it out loud, but what else is there to say? He's way past pretending that he _doesn't _like Steve, that he doesn't think about him all the time. That the thought of _not _staying here with him, in this town, at least for now, breaks his heart. That having him close like this, bodies pressed together, isn't all he's ever wanted, without knowing it.

There's relief on Steve's face when he says it. His hand moves again, now softly pushing Bucky's hair back with his fingers. He leans in for a kiss, which Bucky happily provides. It's soft, but by no means tentative or chaste, and Bucky sighs into it, gripping onto Steve's hips. When they pull apart, the air has yet again shifted into something different than before. Whatever was unspoken has been let out into the world, not just through action, and it's terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

"Stay for a bit?" Bucky asks, without thinking. He says it rather quietly, and bites down on his lip as soon as the words are out, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. Steve nods.

"Yeah," he says. He gives Bucky another kiss. "Yeah."

* * *

It's incredibly easy to get used to, this thing with Steve. They still spend most of their time together, working on the house―they're just a little bit less efficient, now. Regardless of what they're doing, they'll sometimes catch each other's eye and hold that contact for just a little too long, which much too often leads to them suddenly dropping everything in favor of making out against a wall. Or on the floor, which has happened once or twice. Each time, Sarge has mistaken it for playing, and has been very much offended when that has turned out not to be the case. Steve does relent sometimes, though, when his affection for his dog overpowers his horniness. Bucky doesn't mind. If anything, it just reminds him all over again why he's so taken with this guy, to begin with.

Yeah, definitely incredibly easy to get used to. The third-floor bed gets put to good use, for one thing. Bucky even manages to talk Steve into christening one of the double rooms on the second floor, the one whose bed was delivered along with Bucky's. Any of Steve's awkward objections against the idea vanish into thin air when Bucky proceeds to enthusiastically ride him into the mattress.

It's not like the bed will never get used for such things again, they reason, what with people usually finding such ways to relax when they're on vacation. Hopefully. At least, that's the logic they go with, as they then proceed to christen every other bedroom much the same way, once each room slowly becomes furnished over the next week or so.

Bucky feels like a teenager, the way they go at it. As though they can't stop. But it's more than just sex, he's completely certain of that, and Steve is, too. So much more. The sex aspect is just them making up for lost time. Of course, it helps that the sex is utterly mind-blowing.

"You know what?" Steve says against the back of Bucky's neck a few days after the first time, in the middle of the afternoon, during another day's hard work. _Actual _work. They're not even kissing, or anything; Bucky was just bending down to check something by an outlet in the dining room, and the moment he straightened back up, Steve was there behind him. Gripping his hips and pushing him slightly against the windowsill, pressing kisses up along the side of his throat.

"What?" Bucky replies, the word more of an exhale. His skin is already warming. The view of the forest outside the window isn't too bad, either. Painted in shades of green and fiery red, the sky a heavy gray.

"I thought about this, first time I saw you," Steve says, and Bucky hums. "Not specifically this, maybe, but... God, you were so hot. I wanted to just push you up against something and kiss you. You have no idea how happy I was to find out you were into guys."

Bucky lets out a breathless laugh, which Steve mirrors.

"It's true," Steve says, pressing another kiss to Bucky's throat. It burns. "And then you were so funny. And sharp. And dedicated. I had a crush pretty much from day one."

Bucky groans, as self-consciousness creeps into his arousal.

"Says the insanely hot and charming carpenter," he bites out. The laugh from Steve is so lovely, nuzzling against the back of his neck, and Bucky grins.

"You had soot on your face," Steve murmurs, reminiscing. There's something dreamy about his voice now, low and deep. It makes Bucky shiver in a way that's halfway between arousal and bashfulness. Steve pauses. "And not gonna lie, just your sheer determination to fix this place up was kind of a turn-on."

Bucky laughs, bashfulness forgotten.

"Wait, what?" he says. Steve groans, as though embarrassed, still nuzzling against his neck.

"Shut up," he says, a smile in his voice. "It was, okay? I have a thing for capable, committed people."

Bucky hums.

"I guess I get that," he says, a little cheekily. Steve just inhales against his hair, as though to memorize the scent. Bucky is a softly thrilled that it's not just him that wants to do stuff like that. "Can I ask you something?" he says after a moment. Steve hums the affirmative.

"Shoot," he says. Bucky chews his lip, thinking.

"The festival thing," he starts, finally voicing the thought that has been gnawing at him for a week, now. "Was that a date?"

Steve doesn't immediately reply, and he actually stiffens against Bucky for a second. But more out of surprise, than anything.

"Uh," he says, then lets out a breathy laugh. "No? I mean, not on purpose."

Bucky turns around in his embrace to face him.

"And what does that mean?" he says, with a small smile. Steve sighs heavily.

"I mean that it wasn't planned," he admits. "I wanted you to go to the thing, and I wanted to go _with _you, and I wanted you to meet my friends. It wasn't until post-waffle or so that I realized that... maybe it was a date."

He shrugs, lips pressed together in a sheepish expression.

"Oh?" Bucky says, eyebrows raised. He's mostly teasing now, practically forcing Steve to say these things out loud.

"Yes," Steve confirms. He looks a little embarrassed. "And considering how nervous I was beforehand, and the fact that I changed clothes three times before going to pick you up, I felt kind of stupid for not realizing it sooner."

Bucky laughs.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "Yeah, those things would be a dead giveaway." He narrows his eyes. "And I'm pretty sure you were wearing cologne?"

Steve groans, drops his forehead to Bucky's shoulder.

"That, too," he says. "I don't know how to do things halfway, okay?"

Bucky grins, laughing even more and rubbing his hand up and down Steve's back in a mock-comforting gesture.

"Don't worry," he says, "it's part of the appeal."

Steve just groans again, wraps his arms a little tighter around Bucky and nuzzles against his neck. Bucky never would have taken Steve for a cuddler, but at the same time, he's not surprised at all. Such a tactile person is bound to go slightly into overdrive once most physical boundaries are taken away.

"It's not my fault," Steve says. "I was blindsided by a cute boy."

Bucky swallows.

"So, what was it exactly that caused your date-realization?" he asks, keeping a light tone but genuinely curious. Steve hesitates.

"When we talked about living in a place like Pine Rock," he admits. He does it with some apprehension, as though afraid he's revealing too much. "You said you couldn't, in the long term, and I was... kind of hoping you'd say that. Somehow." Bucky stiffens, a wave of dread washing over him, and Steve seems to notice, because he pulls away to meet Bucky's eyes properly. "Not because I don't want you to stay. It's 'cause I knew _I _couldn't live in a place like this forever, and... I don't know. I guess I was relieved we were on the same page. Because I'd want to... be with you. And the fact that we wanted kind of the same thing made me happy." He presses his lips together. "That's when I realized it was a date. 'Cause I realized that I really did like you that way, that it was more than just a crush. Even if I hadn't really thought about it like that, before."

"You hadn't?" Bucky asked quietly. Steve shakes his head.

"No," he says. Then he revises. "I mean, not really. I think I'd told myself _not _to think about it. It was easier to just see it as a crush, something more fleeting and temporary."

"Why?"

Steve gets a sad kind of expression, and he sighs.

"Because you were heartbroken," he admits quietly. "I didn't want to take advantage of that. Or lead you on, when you were in that kind of place." He cocks his head, with a small smile and a scoff. "And, from a more selfish perspective, I didn't want to be a rebound. I know how easily that can happen, especially with this kind of thing. I mean, you had your real life you'd eventually go back to, and I'd be easy to forget, so... Yeah. I guess I just didn't want any of that."

Bucky just watches him for a few moments, then brings his hand up to gently grab Steve's bearded chin with his fingers.

"You are anything but forgettable, Steve Rogers," he says with something like a fond smirk. He presses a quick kiss to Steve's lips. "But I get that."

Steve smiles, eyes amused and soft, all at once.

"I'm glad I was wrong," he says. Bucky hums.

"So far," he says, cocking his eyebrows and smoothly slipping out of Steve's embrace, leaving Steve stunned and confused.

"What does that mean?" he says, whipping around to face Bucky, who's already backing out of the room.

"Means I might change my mind," Bucky says easily, with a nonchalant shrug. "If you don't treat me right."

With that, he exits the dining room, only to have Steve dart after him, throwing his arms around his waist. Bucky lets out a surprised yelp, but uses the second of surprise to overbalance them both, smoothly pushing Steve down onto the drawing room couch. Steve lands with a huff, and Bucky plants himself on top of him, straddling his hips. He grabs Steve's wrists and pins them above his head, on the armrest, while Steve just blinks up at him, confused and disoriented.

"You are a menace," he says, almost as though he actually means it, and Bucky leans down closer. He waggles his eyebrows, and presses a kiss to Steve's lips.

"I think you like me that way," he says, and Steve huffs a laugh.

"I think you leave me no choice," he retorts. Bucky grins, and the two of them just watch each other for a few moments, a distinct kind of soft brightness spreading between them.

_God, _Bucky feels like a goddamn idiot. A swooning, smitten idiot.

The sound of claws tapping on the floor announces the arrival of Sarge, perfectly balanced on his three legs, and Bucky makes sure Steve has nowhere to escape when the hound-mix decides to cover his ear with sloppy kisses.

"Ugh," Steve says, scrunching up his face and trying to shy away from the affection. "Yeah, thank you. Thanks, buddy. I love you, too."

Sarge wags his tail, encouraged by Steve's―in his eyes, playful―reaction, and Bucky gives the dog a soft headbutt when he looks up. Bucky's hands are occupied, after all, pinning down his boyfriend against the couch.

_Boyfriend. _They haven't really said any of that out loud, but it makes sense to assume it, at this point. Right? Bucky hopes so.

Satisfied by the greetings, Sarge attempts to jump up onto the couch with them, but there's simply no room. So he gives up, but doesn't seem to mind, and instead settles on the floor with his back pressed up against the couch, smacking contentedly as his eyes close.

Bucky turns to Steve, who raises his eyebrows in question. Bucky relents, slowly releases his wrists, and while he braces himself for yet another attack, Steve instead just uses his new freedom to pull Bucky down to him, their lips meeting in a slow, sweet kiss. Bucky never wants to stop kissing Steve. Ever.

As though to hide his face, this sentiment no doubt written all over it, Bucky adjusts his position to rest his head against Steve's chest, shuffling down along his body a little to half-lie on top of it, instead. Steve's hand immediately goes to his hair, where calloused fingers start gently combing through it. The steely gray sky outside must have opened up, because heavy drops of rain start falling against the bay window near the couch. A light patter, at first, then louder, the sound of it spreading until it's coming from several points around the house. Bucky doesn't look up to see the droplets run down the glass. Instead, he just gazes out into the now almost-complete drawing room, through half-lidded eyes.

"You know," he says, quietly. "I didn't expect to get a boyfriend out of this."

It's a tentative way of asking, just to make sure. His entire body braces for rejection, his fingers tightening slightly where they rest against the cushion. Steve's hand stills, only for a second or two.

"Me neither," he says, and there's a smile in his voice. And Bucky relaxes, melts into him.

"It's nice, though," he says, his voice just above a whisper, now. Steve hums, the slight rumble of it in perfect harmony with his heartbeat, and Bucky closes his eyes. Steve exhales, resumes his slow running of fingers through Bucky's hair.

"Yeah, it is."

* * *

One thing that Bucky didn't think about when he started this whole thing, is that the third floor doesn't actually have much privacy. Sure, the bedroom door locks, as do the doors to the bathroom and the office, but the floor itself is rather exposed. The staircase leads directly up into it, and while that space is perhaps only big enough for a small couch, maybe even a TV, and a kitchenette, it's still private. It's Bucky's own.

So he decides to simply put a door at the top of the stairs. It's already early October, but better late than never.

"Not too complicated," Steve says when Bucky mentions it, and immediately gets to work on designing and building up what is essentially a small wall, in which to place a doorway, and then a door. He puts it a couple of feet into the room, above the stairs, offering enough space to create a small landing right outside of it.

Bucky shamelessly spends a good couple of hours just watching Steve work, sitting back on the floor and admiring the way he moves, how he so deliberately and expertly pieces together a nice barrier between this area and the rest of the house. Sarge is sleeping on the floor next to Bucky's bed, visible through the open doorway leading into the bedroom. Bucky normally wouldn't mind having a pet up on the furniture, but as long as the dog favors rolling around in musty leaves, he'll have to settle for the floor.

"Make sure it's nice and tight," Bucky says, leaning back against the wall and munching on some trail mix. Steve looks over his shoulder.

"Good to know," he says. "I was gonna just use a masonite board and staple it to the side, keep it nice and wobbly. But now I guess I have to put an actual door in."

He heaves a long-suffering sigh, turning back to his work, and Bucky chuckles. He has a moment of overwhelming affection, a deep breath forcing its way into his lungs, expanding his chest with air as well as utterly smitten warmth. It's bright, easy, overpowering, and although Bucky has felt it several times over the past couple of weeks, he still hasn't gotten used to it. He still hasn't gotten used to how Steve just makes him feel... good. Like he's worth it. Like everything will always be okay, eventually. Somehow.

Most of all, Bucky has accepted it now. Is starting to. He has accepted that he can have this, that Steve wants it too, and that he could theoretically stay here forever, if he wanted to.

But he wouldn't want to. Which would bother him, except Steve wouldn't want to, either. When the time is right, maybe they'll go somewhere else together. Bucky hopes so.

"You are a true craftsman," Bucky says, getting up from the floor. "Once I get a couch in here, I promise to blow you on it as thanks."

Steve sputters a laugh. It's not from embarrassment, though; Bucky has found that Steve Rogers is not at all the prude you might expect him to be.

"Wow," Steve says, turning to Bucky with his eyebrows raised. "And here I've been settling for just money, this whole time."

"Well," Bucky says, hands in his pockets, "I'm changing the terms of our deal." He presses a light kiss to Steve's lips. "You're still getting money, though. Just to be clear."

Steve just chuckles, leans in for another kiss.

"That's a relief," he says. Another kiss, and another, and soon he's leaning into Bucky properly, eyes closed and lips parting against Bucky's. He slowly puts his folded-up yardstick in a pocket of his construction pants to free up his hands, which then find their way to Bucky's waist. Steve doesn't wear jeans when he's properly building and doing straight-up carpenter things, and Bucky finds it unreasonably hot, if he's being totally honest.

The kiss quickly grows a little more heated, Steve's hands now sliding down to Bucky's ass, and Bucky laughs against his lips. Steve just grins, kissing him again and again.

"We're supposed to be working," Bucky says, but he still kisses Steve back every time.

"Technically, _I'm _supposed to be working," Steve corrects him. "You're supposed to be paying me."

"I do pay you," Bucky points out, with a smile. "We just settled that."

Steve hums, brushes their lips together in an almost-kiss.

"Do you, though?" he asks, some mischief in his voice.

"Mr. Rogers," Bucky says seriously, "are you propositioning me?"

"Never," Steve says, kissing the corner of his mouth. "That would be highly inappropriate."

"Uh-huh."

"Unprofessional," Steve continues, kissing Bucky's jaw, his cheek, his neck. "Improper."

"Definitely," Bucky says, but his eyes have closed, mouth curved in a small smile.

"Wouldn't dream of it. And you beat me to it, anyway."

Bucky breathes a laugh, and is just about to let himself melt into this completely, when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He groans softly, and Steve presses up a little closer against him, as though to distract him from the sound. Bucky is about to let him, but his phone buzzes again, and he angles away from Steve a little to fish the phone out of his pocket. Now it's Steve who groans, but Bucky just puts his hand over his face, making a show of slowly pushing him away.

"You play dirty," Steve says from behind his palm, as Bucky unlocks his phone.

"Yeah," Bucky says absently, only to yank his hand away with a yelp when Steve licks his palm. "You animal."

Steve grins, pecks his cheek.

"What is it?" he asks, resuming his kissing of Bucky's neck, which Bucky miraculously manages to ignore. He reads the notification on his phone instead, and his eyebrows shoot up.

"Oh my god," he says. Steve must sense the shift in mood, because he pulls away.

"What?" he says, concerned. But Bucky just holds up the phone, making Steve pull back in order to see it properly. Then his expression mirrors Bucky's. "Holy shit, is that―?"

"I got a booking," Bucky says redundantly, trying and failing to hold back his excitement.

"You got a booking," Steve repeats, beaming. He takes Bucky's face in his hands and presses a sloppy kiss to his lips, making Bucky groan. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," Bucky says, laughing. He looks closer at the details on his phone.

"For when?" Steve asks.

"This weekend," Bucky says. "A little short notice, but I think we're good to go."

The website went live last week, and while Bucky can throw one together just fine―and even make it look good―he's probably going to eventually need someone to handle that side of things. For now, though, he needs to manage most things himself, both for practical and financial reasons.

"We," Steve mumbles with a slight chuckle against Bucky's hair. Bucky chooses to ignore it, despite the warmth it stirs in his chest.

"I can't believe it," Bucky says. "It's... actually happening."

"'Course it is." Steve pulls back, pecks his lips. "You've done an amazing job. And I told you when you got here. This place is a goldmine."

Bucky smiles dopily.

"Yeah, you did," he says.

"We should celebrate," Steve says, moving away from the wall and pulling Bucky with him toward the bedroom.

"Oh yeah?" Bucky says, still gripping his phone in one hand, while Steve holds the other. "How?"

Steve shrugs.

"Sex," he says, and Bucky snorts.

"Wow," he says. "My favorite kind of celebrating, doing the same thing you'd normally do, without alterations. Also, your dog is kind of in the way."

Steve glances over his shoulder, as though having forgotten about that.

"We've got a whole house at our disposal," he says cheekily, and Bucky gives him a flat look. He stops dead, yanking Steve back to him by the hand.

"Actual guests will be staying here just days from now," he points out, doing his best to stifle the soft thrill he gets from saying it out loud. "Alas, we can no longer fornicate whenever and wherever we want to."

"Days from now isn't today, though," Steve says.

"True," Bucky agrees. "But my new chef is coming in later today. And I'm pretty sure you don't want him to walk in on us."

Steve groans, clearly having forgotten all about that.

"No, I don't," he admits, somewhat petulantly. "He'd never let me hear the end of it."

The moment Bucky mentioned needing someone to handle the kitchen and food-side of things once the inn is up and running, Steve had a few candidates to suggest. Most of them had resumes as well as good references, but they were all also employed already. At places Bucky's inn can't really compete with. All but one candidate, a childhood friend of Steve's.

"He doesn't have any formal education, or anything," Steve had said, "but he's good. I'll give you his info if you want it."

He wasn't exaggerating; Sam Wilson is a war vet who currently works at the post office, a job he got when he first came back two years ago, and has kept since. Food is his true passion, though, and that much was clear when Bucky gave him a chance to prove what he could do. His personality wasn't exactly a drawback, either―loud, yet polite, Bucky can imagine he'd mesh well with most kinds of guests.

One might accuse Bucky of some kind of nepotism, but he'd vehemently deny it. Yes, he trusts Steve's judgment, but if there's one thing he's learned throughout his own career, it's that nepotism or anything thereabouts very rarely pays off. He's glad Sam fit the bill. And he's especially glad that he can be part of helping someone do what they've always dreamed of doing. It makes him feel useful, much like this whole project has done. In a way he's never quite felt useful, before.

"Tell you what," Bucky says, stepping closer to Steve and sliding his hands over his waist, moving downward and slipping his hands into the back pockets of Steve's pants. "Once he gets here, we take off. Give him some time to get to know the place."

Steve frowns, but doesn't object to the idea of Sam getting his bearings, on his own.

"Where would we go?" he asks, instead.

"Your place?" Bucky suggests. "I mean, I've never actually been, so..."

He trails off, cocks his head, and something pleasantly surprised lights up Steve's expression.

"Really?" he says. Bucky nods.

"Yeah," he says. "About time, right?"

Steve narrows his eyes, considering it. Then he smiles.

"Sounds like a good idea. Until then, though―?" He leaves the semi-question hanging, eyebrows raised.

"Until then," Bucky pointedly says, taking a step back and removing his hands from Steve's body, "we have work to do."

"_I _have work to do," Steve corrects him again, heading back to the skeleton that will eventually become a wall with a door.

"Whatever," Bucky says. "I'm here providing moral support."

"Yeah, yeah," Steve mutters, but without any animosity, and Bucky smacks his ass lightly.

"Get to it," he says, returning to his previous spot on the floor, where he left his little bag of trail mix. Sarge, having noticed the conversation and moving around, gets up from his spot by the bed, stretches, and comes over to plop down next to Bucky.

"I can't believe you're objectifying me," Steve says evenly.

Bucky just raises his eyebrows, and does a shooing motion with his hand, which only makes Steve let out an amused snort, before turning back around to continue with his work. Bucky smiles and leans back, Sarge putting his head on his lap with hopeful eyes. Bucky offers him a peanut―just the one―with the dog gobbles up with glee. He seems content after that, and Bucky starts petting him slowly, smoothing his hand over the short, dark fur. His eyes stay on Steve, who has started humming under his breath. The fact that Bucky doesn't recognize the song doesn't make it any less wonderful.

Sam is honestly thrilled to have the place to himself for a little bit. It's his second time visiting―the first time, he used the brand new kitchen to convince Bucky that he was worth hiring―and they go over some things they touched upon, the first time around.

"As far as the menu goes," Bucky says, "like I said, you have free rein. You can put whatever you want on there."

Sam lets out an impressed sound, which comes off as almost cocky, from him.

"Oh, don't worry about it," he says. "I got a few ideas."

Bucky narrows his eyes suspiciously, but Steve drags him out the front door before he can question Sam's intentions. They leave Sarge behind, he and Sam more than happy to spend some time together, and it's not until he's reached the road below the house that Bucky starts to feel a little antsy.

"What?" Steve asks, glancing at him from the driver's seat of his truck. Bucky looks back at the house, then straight ahead again.

"No one's ever been there alone, before," he says, realizing that he hadn't actually thought of that, until this moment.

"Oh," Steve says. "It's Sam, though, it's fine."

"No, I don't―" Bucky starts, with a sigh. "It's not that. I just... It feels like I'm leaving my kid with a babysitter for the first time."

Steve chuckles.

"Aw," he says, earning a light punch in the arm from his boyfriend.

"That house is my baby, okay?" Bucky says, while Steve's chuckle turns into an amused smile. "I feel weird trusting it with a stranger."

"Well, strangers are going to be living there," Steve points out. "A lot of them, hopefully."

"Doesn't mean it doesn't make me nervous, first time around."

"You?" Steve glances at him, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "Bucky Barnes? Nervous?" Bucky just throws him a scathing look, and Steve backs off with a laugh. "I get it. It's a big deal. Try not to worry, though. It's gonna be great."

It's the kind of comment that would normally annoy Bucky; if just not worrying were that easy, worrying would never be an issue. But Steve says it with empathy, with understanding, which makes it all the more effective. He says it like it's a fact. Everything is going to be okay, it just _is, _because Steve Rogers says so. It's a contagious kind of confidence, and Bucky exhales slowly, instantly a little calmer.

They pass by the hotel on their way through the town. Phil was excited, disappointed, and happy, all at once, when Bucky finally checked out to move into the inn properly. He wished Bucky good luck, and jokingly issued the same challenge he's been hinting at since Bucky arrived, that they'll have to fight over guests, and may the best man win. As though to sabotage himself, Bucky has made sure to leave the hotel a glowing review everywhere he can find.

Steve's place is a few streets from the main street, a small house squeezed among a few others. It's well-maintained, just like those around it, but not in a picturesque, Stepford kind of way. Bucky doesn't think he could have stayed more than a minute in this town, if it had been anything like that.

"I got this place pretty cheap, once I moved back," Steve says, as they walk up the steps and he unlocks the front door. "It's not much, but it's mine."

The house is painted in a soothing blue, two stories high, and about half the size of Bucky's Victorian inn. The garden is small, pretty average in terms of maintenance, and the low fence is without a gate. Bucky can't put his finger on why, but he feels that all of it suits Steve pretty perfectly.

Once inside, his instinct is confirmed. It's a rather humble place, but not spartan, the walls full of art of different kinds. It doesn't look cluttered. Nothing in here looks cluttered, but rather strategically placed and angled, so that it all flows together seamlessly.

"Hm," Bucky says, looking around, as Steve closes the door behind them.

"What?" Steve says. He sounds almost a little concerned, as though Bucky's opinion on his home matters.

"It's very..." Bucky says, "you." He turns to Steve. "In a good way."

"A good way?" There's a small smile on Steve's face as he slowly grabs the edges of Bucky's coat, pulling him in.

"In a very good way," Bucky says quietly, smiling softly. He must look like a complete dumbass, but he doesn't care. Mostly because Steve looks about as dopey as he feels.

"That's good," Steve says, bringing their lips together. A soft kiss, brief. "I'm glad."

"These are amazing," Bucky says, pulling away and gesturing toward all the wall art. "Are any of them yours?"

Steve nods, taking off his jacket as Bucky takes off his coat.

"Yeah," Steve says, hanging up his jacket. And, ever the gentleman, he snatches Bucky's coat to hang it up as well. "Some of them." He steps into the living room, and points out a few pieces on the walls. "I did this one back in college. Really proud of it, to be honest. And these were... an experimental phase. Haven't really tried watercolor again, since. That's my mom."

He goes on, pointing out each one, briefly telling the story behind it and when it was made. Some are charcoal―Steve's favorite, it seems―some are pencil, others are acrylic or watercolor. Then he goes on to talk about the pieces that _aren't _his, and Bucky eventually goes from watching the artwork to watching Steve, only glancing at where he's pointing. Steve soon notices, and Bucky must have a particular look on his face, because he stops.

"What?" he says.

"Nothing," Bucky says, shaking his head. "It's― I like seeing you excited."

Steve just blinks at him, before breaking into a small smile. There's almost something bashful about it, and Bucky is delighted. Steve opens his mouth as though to say something, but after a few tries, Bucky decides to put him out of his misery. He leans in and kisses him, and Steve smiles against his lips.

They don't have the best track record when it comes to keeping their kisses brief and innocent. As such, they rather quickly end up pressed closer together, trading breathy sounds through open-mouthed kisses. They pay very little attention to their surroundings from then on. So much so that Bucky―unfamiliar with this particular environment―leads them straight into the edge of the coffee table, bumping against the corner and making them both hiss in pain, before he manages to maneuver Steve onto the couch. He's only vaguely aware of what the couch looks like; he was quickly distracted before, after all.

"You know what I just realized?" Steve pants, as Bucky tugs off his unbuttoned flannel shirt.

"What's that?" Bucky replies, doing his best not to keep their lips apart for more than a split second at a time. Steve is momentarily distracted by it, moaning against his lips, hands tightening on Bucky and sliding down his thighs.

"Since we won't be able to do this much at the house, starting Friday," he says between kisses, as he starts undoing the fly of Bucky's jeans, "this could work."

"How so?" Bucky's eyes close, distracted by how Steve's hands feel pressed against his hipbones, thumbs rubbing circles into the skin.

"Well, I also have a house to myself, in case you hadn't noticed," Steve says, pushing his hands up along Bucky's torso and taking his sweater with him. He pulls it off, and Bucky groans, digs his fingers into Steve's hair, kissing him deeply.

"So we'll just come here whenever we get too horny to function?" he says, but he's only half-kidding. The thought of not being able to touch Steve like this whenever he wants is torture, and he'll take what he can get. Though, it does help that he actually has a lockable door coming along now, up to the third floor.

Steve laughs against Bucky's mouth, pushes his tongue past his lips for a moment, intently and eagerly.

"Could be fun, though," he says, mischief in his voice. Which is a dangerous thing, coming from Steve.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." Steve pulls of his shirt completely, kisses Bucky's throat, his collarbones, nips the skin softly, making Bucky groan. "We can be just as inappropriate as we want," he says. "As long as no one sees or hears."

Bucky lets out a slightly louder, wanton groan.

"All I'm hearing," he says, smoothing one hand down Steve's chest and teasing a nipple with his thumb, making Steve gasp, "is that there'll be plenty of opportunity for quickies and quiet blowjobs."

"Oh, god." Steve practically grunts the words, leaning his forehead against Bucky's chest, digging blunt nails into his skin. Bucky combs his fingers through that blond, mussed hair and pulls, ever so slightly. A surprised moan from Steve, as he wraps his arms around Bucky and pulls him closer.

"That does sound fun," Bucky says, a little cheekily. As he says it, Steve slips a hand down along his back and in underneath his boxer briefs, making Bucky push closer and press against him. Steve grins, lets out a breathless laugh, eyes on Bucky's mouth.

"Speaking of having a whole house," he says. "You realize I've got a bedroom, right?"

Bucky hums, grinding down against him and making Steve's eyes close, a moan escaping his lips.

"We'll look at it later," he says, kissing Steve over and over again. "Promise."

* * *

_Goldmine _turns out to be a surprisingly accurate term, in regard to the house. Over the next few weeks, the bookings keep rolling in, and Bucky is glad they managed to finish the place enough in time for the autumn-tourists to arrive. He missed the first of it, but it's catching up quickly, and by mid-October, all the rooms are booked-up until early November. By late October, it's booked-up even further ahead; the inn hasn't been empty for more than two days at a time, since those very first guests arrived.

Most of them only stay for a few days, especially over weekends, and spend most of the daylight hours driving around to enjoy the scenery. Some check out hidden gems they've read about online, and Bucky resolves to put together some kind of list, himself. It's good to have one, for those who arrive asking for recommendations. Bucky has even turned to Phil for tips, on that one.

Sam is thriving in the kitchen; he started off safe with the menu, before mixing things up a bit further on, to almost universally good reactions. Bucky has even had to bring in a part-time helper, for times when Sam has especially much to do. And Harley is used to dealing with Tony Stark's attitude on a daily basis, so he's well-suited for this sometimes fast-paced environment. Despite his occasional cockiness, the teenager is good at following instructions.

Sharon has promised to stop by when she has the time, but she has so much on her plate with work, that Bucky insists there's no rush. Meanwhile, Peter―the bed-delivery guy―keeps his word and books a weekend for him and his fiancée. Bucky gives him a special price, too.

It's been a busy few weeks, to say the least, and by the time Halloween rolls around, it doesn't seem to be stopping, anytime soon.

It's late afternoon, the sun has started thinking about setting outside, and Bucky is in the process of decorating. He's been at it for a while, and now puts his step ladder in place, to pin up the final fake cobweb up along the beam that divides the foyer and drawing room. It's a little tacky, perhaps, but these decorations are a guilty pleasure he's happy to indulge, for once. Back in New York, decorating for Halloween, or even celebrating it aside from using it as an excuse to get drunk and let loose a little, was always frowned upon. Well, perhaps more just made fun of. Mocked.

Bucky hasn't had any proper Halloween celebration for years. And at least he's avoiding plastic skeletons and the like―he has an entire Victorian mansion at his disposal, and damn it if he's not going to attempt keeping it at least a little classy, mostly using branches and various autumnal, semi-spooky details. He chooses to ignore the fact that it's not actually a mansion at all, but rather just a big house. Doesn't have the same ring to it.

"You're really going for this hibernation beard thing," Steve says, stroking the dark hairs that have settled on Bucky's face in an affectionate, borderline condescending way. Bucky pulls away.

"Hey," he says. "You know the last time I could actually grow a full, proper beard? Without losing my job? Too long. I'm making up for a lot of lost time."

Steve chuckles, presses a kiss to Bucky's lips. "I like it."

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky says. "Yours ain't so bad, either."

Steve cocks his head nonchalantly, stroking the thick beard covering half his face, prompting a snort from Bucky, who ascends the step ladder.

"You know," Steve says after a minute. "You've kind of spoiled Halloween for a lot of kids, this year."

Bucky straightens, looks down at him over his shoulder. There are two people sitting in the drawing room, a couple of friends doing a kind of last-hurrah roadtrip, from what Bucky can tell. They're currently talking, curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee each. It looks incredibly cozy, and Bucky will admit that the whole image of it is basically what he hoped this place would be, when he started.

"Me?" Bucky says to Steve, shocked and offended. "How?"

"This used to be the spooky house," Steve explains gravely. "The one kids would dare each other to go into on Halloween. Well, year round, really. But especially Halloween."

"Is that so?" Bucky says flatly, already recovered from Steve's mischief. Steve nods.

"I'll bet you anything we get _a lot _of trick-or-treaters, tonight," he says, gesturing in the direction of the front door. "They're all very curious about what this place looks like now. Even if they won't admit it."

"Well, how do you know, then?" Bucky asks.

"I have my sources," Steve says. "Aka, Darcy, who teaches at the elementary school."

Bucky shakes his head.

"Good thing I'm prepared, then," he says. _Prepared _might be an understatement. He has purchased a ridiculous amount of candy―the good stuff, such as full-size bars―and the pumpkins that are to be placed outside the house will definitely add to the house's spooky, Victorian vibe.

He won't be carving the pumpkins himself, though; there's just not enough time, and it always ends up more exhausting than you'd expect. Instead, Steve will be picking up a few from Scott Lang, whose daughter has been practicing for the actual pumpkin carving contest in town. Needless to say, they have quite a few failed ones to spare, and practically gave them away when Steve asked, insisting it was in the spirit of the season. Which is an interesting take, for sure, but one that Bucky very much appreciates.

"Hey," Steve says, as Bucky descends the step ladder. "We going to the festival later?"

Bucky narrows his eyes.

"Is it an actual date, this time?" he asks, and Steve rolls his eyes.

"Yes," he says, smiling. "It's a date."

"Oh, wow," Bucky says. "A date. So straightforward."

"Yeah, well," Steve says. "Apparently, there was some confusion, last time."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Are we going or not?"

Bucky chuckles, kisses him on the lips.

"'Course we are," he says. "As long as I don't have deal with that waffle-abomination again."

"Whoa," Steve says, offended. "Alright. Though, I'll have you know, they add pumpkin around Halloween."

"You mean pumpkin _spice_?" Bucky says.

"No," Steve says. "Pumpkin. Straight-up pumpkin. Pumpkin spice is just lies, anyway."

"Oh my god," Bucky says, folding up the step ladder and carrying it with him as he heads for the kitchen. "I can't believe they found a way to make it even more disgusting."

"I'm gonna tell them you said that."

"Go for it," Bucky says over his shoulder. "I'm not afraid."

"I'll ruin your whole reputation in this town," Steve calls after him, but Bucky just smiles to himself as he keeps walking.

Phil was right, as was Steve―Halloween in Pine Rock means going all-in. While the smaller festival in September was nice and calm, Halloween apparently entails bright lights and games, pumpkins everywhere, a haunted house at the school gym, trick-or-treaters roaming the streets with beleaguered adults in tow.

Bucky stayed at the inn long enough to receive some trick-or-treaters, most of which came in what you might call a throng―the house is slightly outside of town, after all, and there's safety in numbers. Accompanied by adults, they wandered along the dirt road leading up to the house, guided by the large lanterns placed atop metal rod-like stands along the edge. There aren't actually any electric-powered lights up yet, which Bucky knows he'll have to remedy sometime soon. It's already getting dark pretty early, after all.

Just as Steve said, many kids were curious to see what the old Pierce house looks like now. Some dared to step into the foyer, most marveled at the many (rather ugly, but charming) jack-o-lanterns decorating the front of the house. Others simply stood quietly on the porch, clearly taken aback, impressed, intimidated, or all of the above. Everyone got candy, regardless.

Sam has promised to hand out more candy, should the need arise. Bucky insisted he go home, given that his daily hours are done, but Sam seemed equally insistent that Bucky and Steve go on "an actual goddamn date", and who were they to argue.

So here they are, wandering down the main street, darkness having fallen around them already. Scott's daughter, Cassie, doesn't win the pumpkin carving contest, but she doesn't seem too upset. She determines that her pumpkin is just misunderstood, and Scott wholeheartedly supports that interpretation. Bucky makes sure to personally thank her for providing him with the army of jack-o-lanterns he needed to protect his house, as well.

Bucky spends some more time with Steve's friends, once again in a more pub-like setting. It's too cold for the doors to be open this time, but none of them mind. The pub is less crowded, but only slightly, as most of the tourists are out enjoying the festival.

Steve's friends are slowly becoming Bucky's, as well. He likes them. There's something practical and straightforward about a place like this, and its people, less of the polished, back-stabbing atmosphere that Bucky is used to. He remembers what he said to Steve that time, about how he couldn't really imagine himself living in this town, long-term, and while he stands by it, he will admit that he likes it here. Especially with the inn, it's like its own little world that he has crafted for himself. He could be quite happy here, for a while.

"I am not eating that," Bucky says a couple of hours later, when Steve holds up the pumpkin-sprinkled version of that waffle-thing in his face. Other people are eating them, Bucky notes, as they linger by the stand, breaths coming out in puffs of steam. It's not just Steve who's insane, apparently.

"Just try it," Steve says. "Come on."

"Is it different from last time?" Bucky says doubtfully. "Aside from the actual pumpkin. Which tastes like nothing, I might add."

"That makes it different," Steve reasons. "And there's still the hot fudge sauce option."

"I swear, it's like some small-town cult thing," Bucky mutters, accepting the waffle from Steve's hand. "This is your Kool-Aid."

"Join us, James," Steve says, with exaggerated, eerie calm. "Join the community."

Bucky glares at him, before taking a breath and biting into the waffle. He chews it slowly, squints a little at the addition of pumpkin seeds, and the semi-slimy nothingness of what he assumes to be raw pumpkin. Then he frowns.

"It's―" he starts, actually swallowing the bite.

"Good?" Steve says hopefully.

"Edible," Bucky says.

"I'll take it," Steve says, with a grin. Bucky hands him the waffle, tries not to smile at the way Steve's nose has gone pink from the cold. "It'll grow on you."

"Yeah, that's what I'm worried about."

* * *

It's late by the time they get back to the inn. All the guests are either still at the festival in town, or have gone to bed, so the drawing room is blissfully empty. Bucky has barely shed his coat and scarf and gloves, before he kicks off his boots and heads straight for the couch, plopping down on it with a heavy sigh. Steve scoffs a laugh, and undresses at a much slower pace. Then he wordlessly heads out of sight, but Bucky is too tired to really care. The fireplace is lit, the air pleasantly warm and full of crackling, burning wood, and he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Steve is gently nudging his leg with his foot.

"Here," he says, holding out a steaming cup, and Bucky takes it. It's definitely warm, but not warm enough to burn his still-cool palms, and he brings it up to his nose. It's coffee, and he glances at Steve as he sits down beside him. "Decaf," Steve explains. "Just needed something warm."

He has a cup of his own, and Bucky tentatively takes a sip from the one Steve gave him. His eyes close again, a soft almost-moan escaping him.

"That's so good," he murmurs, and Steve chuckles.

"Tired?" he asks, and Bucky hums.

"Understatement," he says. "I don't know how, but I suddenly feel like I haven't slept in weeks."

"Well," Steve says, sitting only slightly more upright than Bucky, at the moment. "You _have _been working pretty much non-stop for almost three months. Maybe it's just catching up with you."

"I've taken breaks before," Bucky weakly protests, but he knows that Steve has a point.

"Yeah," Steve says, "but this is the first one where you're actually _done. _With this place. It's all pretty much done."

He redundantly gestures around the room, and Bucky's eyes flit from the neat foyer, to the steadily filling-up bookcases, to the lamps, to the fireplace, to the walls that are becoming less bare by the day. The rug, the side tables, the armchairs. The soft-yet-rough texture of the couch cushions beneath him. He lets out a little thoughtful huff.

"Maybe," he says. He sips his coffee, and they just sit there in silence for a little bit.

"So, uh," Steve starts after a while. There's apprehension in his voice, a kind which Bucky hasn't heard there in a while. "What's the plan? Moving forward."

Bucky frowns, turns his head slightly to look at Steve. Said apprehension is written all over his face, and it takes a second for Bucky to realize what he's asking.

"Uh," he starts, eloquently. "We're booked-up until mid-December. By the looks of things, it'll probably continue, over Christmas and New Year's. Hopefully." He pauses, and Steve waits patiently. For the first time since they got together, he's asking, once again, if Bucky is going to stay. "I suppose I'll go back home for Christmas, depends on my parents. They were thinking about going to see some family in Indiana, and I'm honestly not a huge fan of those people. If they do... I guess I might stay here? Over the holidays?"

Steve blinks, and the apprehension on his face starts to shift into something like joy.

"Why?" Bucky asks, and Steve shakes his head.

"Just wondering," he says. "'Cause, well, I'll be here. And I don't really have any family left, so I usually get together with Sam and some other people for Christmas. Scott and Hope, maybe his kid if she's not with her mom in Boston. Tony, sometimes. Depends on who's left, basically." He adds it with a soft chuckle, no bitterness behind the statement. Bucky hums.

"So," he says, "if I were to stay. We could... maybe do something?"

"Maybe."

"I mean." Bucky twists a little to glance at the vaulted doorway leading into the dining room, then out across the drawing room they're currently in. "I've got a lot of space. Some guests will probably be here, and there'll be Christmas dinner and stuff if they want it. But it's flexible."

Steve smiles.

"Buck," he says, and Bucky is just as stupidly pleased as always by the shortened nickname that only Steve has ever used. "Are you implying that we can have a big Christmas celebration here at the house?"

Bucky shrugs, which is a little difficult, seeing as how he has slid even further down along the cushions. It's almost uncomfortable, now. Steve, meanwhile, is still sitting upright.

"Yeah?" Bucky says. "If they'd want to, I mean. Your friends. It'd be a lot of mingling of locals and guests, but―" Another shrug. "Could be fun."

Steve just watches him for a few moments, and Bucky wonders if he overstepped. Maybe it's too much, too intense. Tom always said that he could be too much, too intense. Too committed, too soon.

But Steve is the same as Bucky, perhaps even more so. Steve Rogers doesn't know how to do things halfway. And so, when he uses his free hand to lift Bucky's bearded chin and kiss him, beaming as he pulls away again, Bucky really shouldn't be surprised.

"I'd love that," Steve says. _I might love _you, Bucky thinks, but says nothing. Not yet, definitely not yet. Instead, he smiles.

"Good," he says. "Then we'll do that."

Steve nods, then turns to the fireplace in the corner of the room, sliding down a little to lean against Bucky. Neither of them mentions how Christmas is still almost two months away, and that a lot of things could happen, in that time. That they might not even be together anymore, by then, if something big were to occur. Bucky still has to consider his long-term future, too, his life back in New York, his empty apartment, his lawyer-career, whether or not he wants any of that to continue, in some shape or form. And this whole endeavor might be starting off well, but it'll still be a little longer before Bucky starts making any actual profit, and his savings are going to run out, eventually. So much could happen in two months, just like so much has happened in the past three.

But neither of them says it, because it doesn't matter right now. Right now, all that matters is this. Bucky and Steve, on this couch, in the house that they built. Happy, warm, safe, with an open fire and a dozen ugly jack-o-lanterns keeping the darkness at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! 🎃


End file.
